DON    FOLQUET 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 
THE  PRISON  SHIPS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 
THE  PILGRIM  KINGS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 
THE  HISPANIC 

ANTHOLOGY 


DON  FOLQUET 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

THOMAS   WALSH 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:    JOHN   LANE,    THE    BODLEY    HEAD 

MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
JOHN  LANE    COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ivea  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

JOHN  BUNKER 
POET  AND  COMRADE 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DON  FOLQUET 13 

ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT"     ...  67 

MURILLO  PAINTS  "THE  ASSUMPTION"    .  80 

MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 89 

HUMPTY  DUMPTY 9O 

LITTLE  Miss  MOFFET 91 

THE  SPRATS 92 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 93 

To  BANBURY  CROSS 95 

BO-PEEP 96 

MADAM  O'SnoE 97 

ONE  CONTRARY 98 

BOY  BLUE 99 

ON  THE  TREE-TOP 100 

MOTHER  HUBBARD 101 

IN  THE  CAFE  EUROPA 103 

THE  SAVING  VIRTUES 107 

THE  WIDOWY  DRONE 109 

AN  AUTUMN  SONG no 

THE  SEA-WOMAN 113 

iz 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BROWN-STONE  Row 116 

CATULLUS  ANENT  His  LESBIA      .     .     .  119 

GUITAR  SONG 120 

To  JOYCE  KILMER — JULY  30,  1918    .     .  121 

THE  SIGH  FOR  DEIRDRE 126 

THE  MOTHERS  OF  HEAVEN     ....  128 

AD  LIMINA 130 

NIGHTINGALE  TO  THE  LARK    .     .     .     .  131 

ALGONKIN  SPRING 132 

FULFILMENT 135 


DON    FOLQUET 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


DON  FOLQUET 

I 

THE  apple  orchards  on  the  hills  were  white 

With   blossoms,    and  the   languid   clouds 
beyond 

Lifted  like  polar  mountains  in  the  blue. 

There  where  the  little  road  went  down  the 
vale 

Beside  the  River  Argens,  Folquet  heard 

The   springtime    murmuring    across    the 
lands, 

The  chirruping  of  birds,  the  herdsman's 
voice, 

The  human  echoes  from  the  fields  afar. 

And  yet  he  came  not  from  his  hidden  lodge 

Among  the  trees,  but  with  a  thoughtful 
eye 

He  marked  the  throngs  of  dames  and  gal 
lants  pass 

Upon  their  dappled  palfreys,  brightly  gay, 

Under  the  blosmy  archway  of  the  road, 
13 


DON  FOLQUET 


Even  though  at  times  amid  their  mirth  a 

lute 

Struck  careless  off  a  broken  stave  or  two 
Of  his   aubade   "The   Blossom   Time   of 

Spring" — 
Struck    careless — but    amid    his    sombre 

mood 
He   hardly    heard,    so    deep    was   he    in 

thought. 
What  had  come  o'er  him — once  the  gayest 

voice 

Of  all  the  choristers  of  love — that  he 
Had  fallen  from  grace  within  so  many  a 

bower, 

And,  half-forgotten,  felt  no  joy  awake 
At  May's  returning? — he  whose  song  of 

old 

Was  fabled  for  its  springtime  melody; 
He  who  once  led  the  fairest  troop  afield, 
Won  beauty's  rarest  favors  and  the  name 
Of    "Prince    of    Poets"    in   the    northern 

lands; 
He,  for  whose  smile  the  grandest  dame 

was  feign 
To  pledge  her  honor,  for  whose  meed  of 

song 

14 


DON  FOLQUET 

The  haughtiest  lord  forgot  his  lowly  birth, 

And  bade  him  welcome  to  his  halls  of 
state. 

Nigh  fifteen  years  had  passed  since  that 
spring  morn 

When  he,  a  stripling  grown,  full  tall  and 
fair 

Came  first  to  join  the  hillside  jousts  of 
song. 

He  could  recall  the  older  singers'  smiles, 

As  in  his  heavy  robes  of  silk  and  furs, 

His  chain  of  gold,  his  jewelled  cap  and 
belt, 

He,   the   rich  trader's  son  of   old   Mar 
seilles, 

Struck  his   first  preludes  as  they  moved 
aside. 

And  how  the  listless  dames  with  sly  re 
mark 

Measured  his  lithesome  form,  and  subtly 
scanned 

His  cheek  half  blushing,  and  would  meet 
his  glance 

Soft  with  the  spring  and  shaded  'neath  the 
sweep 

Of  ebon  lashes  and  entangled  hair. 
15 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  when  the  Countess  at  his  saltttz'  close 
Leant  from  her  rustic  throne  and  smiling 

bade 
Him  welcome,  'twas  the  very  breath  of 

heaven ; 

He  felt  his  life  indeed  begin;  the  warmth 
Of  all  his  boyhood  leaped  into  his  eyes. 
Then  when  the  gallant  company  arose 
Upon  her  signal,  moving  toward  her  halls, 
As  in  a  trance  he  fed  upon  her  grace, 
Trembled  at  every  pulsing  of  her  breast, 
With  heart's  suspense  at  each  intending 

step; 

Until  the  kindly  Abbot  at  his  ear 
Whispered, — "Son,  take  thy  lute  and  fol 
low,  where 
Beauty   and  Heart's   Delight   and  Glory 

call."— 

So  from  that  day  he  sat  beside  her  chair, 
And  marked  the  envious  lordlings  whisper 
ing  round; 

Heard  the  old  poets  singing  of  old  days, — 
Though   she,   the    far-famed   Magnet  of 

the  North, 

Lent  ear  to  him  alone.     She  was  the  sun 
16 


DON  FOLQUET 

That  set  his  heart  abloom,  his  songs  broke 
forth 

Like  morning  blossoms.  At  their  lady's 
joy 

Her  maiden  throngs  took  up  and  passed 
along 

The  countersign  till  all  the  land  was  gay 

Because  Alazais  placed  her  love  in  him. 

In  memory  too  came  back  that  twilight 
hour 

When  she  within  the  tower  with  him  alone 

Said  sweetly, — "Knight,  you  seek  a  lady's 
love, 

Yet  never  speak  her  name."  And  he  re 
plied, — 

"She  is  too  great  a  crown  for  my  poor 
heart 

To  wear,  but  it  grows  larger  at  the 
thought 

Of  her."— "Thy  modesty,  Don  Folquet, 
well 

Gives  augury  of  thy  success  in  love, 

But  scarcely  in  thy  heart  the  passion  glows. 

There  is  a  lady  here  that  holds  thee  well 

And  fain  would  form  thee  for  the  cour 
tier's  part. 


DON  FOLQUET 

Kneel  thou  and  kiss  my  hand,  for  I  do  take 
Upon  me  thine  instruction."  And  he  bent 
Upon  his  knee,  when  she  with  sudden 

hands 
Clasped  his  young  cheeks  and  pressed  a 

kiss  upon 
His  boyish  mouth.  .  .  .  Suddenly  a  deep 

blush 
Swept  his  whole  body,  head  to  foot,  for 

ne'er 

Before,  save  at  his  mother's  lips,  had  he 
Known  kisses,  and  the  surging  wave  that 

stirred 
From  novel  passions  threatened  to  o'er- 

whelm 
His  senses.    Then  she  smoothed  his  hair, 

arranged 

His  pourpoint;  tightened  up  his  garter- 
bands, 

And  promised  him  a  gift  of  perfumed  soap 
To  make  his  daily  bath.  Full  soon  a  squire 
And  pawing  steed  she  sent  to  wait  him, 

black 

And  sleek,  below  the  tower  stair,  to  bear 
Him  forth  in  Sire  Barral's  proud  train,  on 

days 

18 


DON  FOLQUET 

Of  hunt  or  festival.     Ah,  fleeting  years 
Of  carollings  at  Eastertide;  and  groups 
Beneath  the  apple-blossoms;  of  harvest- 
songs 

Amid  the  spurting  grapes ;  of  Noel  watch 
At  midnight  and  the  crackling  of  the  logs 
In  the  great  hall  where  they  would  sit 

around! 
And  then  the  change — when  all  the  world 

of  grace 
Was  tuneful  with  his  praise,  when  dame 

with  dame 
Competed    for    his    singing,     and    even 

Eudoxia, 
The  Grecian  emperor's  daughter,  strove 

in  vain 
To   lure   him  to   her   amorous  northern 

towers ! — 
He  had  achieved  the  triple  crowns — held 

gold 
In  plenteous  store   for  every  need;   and 

fame 

Fulfilling  all  his  dreams  of  song;  and  love, 
The  fairest  hand  in  Christendom  had 

signed 

19 


DON  FOLQUET 

That  he  might  hope;  the  lips  to  which 

noblesse 
And    courtesy    gave    primal    place    had 

pledged 
Him  servitor  with  the   solemn  kiss  that 

made 

His  sovereignty  in  love's  imperial  courts. 
But  yet,  the  change,  that  'mid  it  all  began 
Within  his  heart;  the  voice  that  ceaseless 

asked, — 
"Why  sing — there  is  no  more  to  gain;  why 

hoard — 
Thou  canst  dispense  no  more;  why  love, 

poor  moth, — 

Thy  silken  web  is  spun  but  to  impede 
The  wing  with  which  thy  soul  would  fain 

escape. 
Thou  art  like  some  poor  Paynim  maid  who 

longs 
To  change  her  freedom  for  the  latticed 

bowers 

Behind  the  Soldan's  citadels;  who  when 
She  finds  her  warmest  wish  fulfilled,  at 

last 
Amid  the  gardens  of  her  soul's  desires, 

20 


DON  FOLQUET 

Finds  herself  also  changed,  and  sighs  in 

vain 
For    desert    wildness    'mid    her    golden 

cage." 
Yes,  through  it  all  the  solemn  voice  kept 

on 
Though  he  would  twang  his  gayest  string 

and  lead 
Gallants  and  ladies,  through  his  maddest 

routs, 
Thinking  to  still  it — but  in  vain.     And 

when 

Upon  the  castle  terrace  in  the  moon 
He  struck  the  oldtime  serenades  of  love 
His  fingers  half  refused  the  amorous  task 
From  which  onetime  they  hardly  were  re 
strained; 

The  glowing  passion  and  luxuriant  wealth 
Of  Fancy  faded  from  his  verse  and  left 
Dry  wisdom  to  infuse  his  polished  tropes 
And  metres  stately  cold  as  colonnades, 
That  left  the  heart  as  cold.     And  when 

the  hand 
He   sought  was   granted  to  his   lips,   he 

found 

A  pleasure  half  malign  to  read  the  bone 
21 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  sinew  through  its  velvet  white,  and 

felt 

Distaste  at  all  the  courtly  mockery, 
Like  a  sick  eye  upon  the  senseless  flowers. 
So  it  had  been  these  latter  years,  until 
The  mood  upon  him  showed  athwart  the 

mask 

Gay  years  and  forms  had  set  upon  him,  till 
The  smile  with  which  he  opened  every 

heart 
Grew  sharp  and  knowing,  and  the  soulful 

eye, 

Opulent  of  vision,  lost  its  glow  and  showed 
At  times  a  rodent  craft  and  scorn  of  all. 
And  soon  the  ears  that  harkened  him  alone 
Craved  various  entertainment  of  the  lutes 
That  came  in  t  wandering  trains  unto  the 

courts — 
Some   Eastern  jongleur  in   a   Templar's 

suite ; 

Some  mime  Italiot  in  an  Abbot's  court, — 
And  when  he  would  rehearse  some  classic 

theme, 

Trace  the  awakening  of  the  poet's  soul, 
Or  point  the  silent  path  of  contemplation, 
22 


DON  FOLQUET 

Such   vagrant   roisterers   would   raise    at 

times 

A  rig  ado  on  that  set  the  hall  afoot, 
A  mad  stampida  until  one  by  one 
His  reverent  group  would  steal  to  join  the 

crowd, 
Whose  riotous  laughter  gained  and  gained 

until 
It  drove  him  from  the  court. — 

And  so  he  kept 

Disdainful  state  within  his  little  lodge 
Between  the  hills  where  Argens  flowing 

smooth 

Wound  its  fine  silver  spiral  to  the  sea; 
Where  night  and  morning  alternated  calm; 
Among  his  squires,  a  faithful  lad  or  two, 
He  found  the  shining  days  beget  remorse ; 
A  heavy  tome  at  nightfall  by  the  lamp, 
A  glass  with  some  wayfaring  Crusader, 
Or  boon  companion  from  the  abbey  near; 
A  frolic  with  his  gray  Italian  hounds; 
And  now  and  then  some  jongleur  faring 

by 
Would  stay  the  night  to  raise  the  oldtime 

songs 

23 


DON  FOLQUET 

Or  learn  the  new  ones;  or  some  graver 

sage, 

Come  from  the  court  or  from  some  for 
eign  land, 

Bespoke  him  "Master"  and  did  reverence 
For  some  far  prelate,  lord  or  chatelaine, — • 
To  this,  to  this  alone  his  dreams  had 

led!— 

This  promise  of  eternity  of  Fame 
When  all  the  idle  singers  of  the  day 
Should  be  as  though  they  never  lived,  or 

sang, 
The  while  his  studied  song — held  now  but 

craft 

And    studious    research — should    be   re 
ceived 

As  mould  immortal  of  a  mind  supreme ! 
How  cold  the  heights  to  which  his  stars 

had  led! 
Now  too,  when  through  the  apple-blossoms 

came 

The  laughter  bringing  to  his  heart  again 
An  oldtime  flutter  hardly  stilled  as  yet, 
Was  it  for  him  no  more?     Scarce  thirty 
years 

24 


DON  FOLQUET 

Had  passed  upon  his  head,  where  not  a 

touch 

Of  gray  was  visible,  his  supple  form 
But  for  an  added  grandeur  had  exchanged 
The  lithesomeness  of  youth;  the  trace  of 

thought 

Had  but  infused  his  eyes  with  greater  fire 
And  marked  him  out  among  the  chiefs  of 

men. 

The  field  and  tourney  and  the  hunting  days 
Had  set  a  touch  of  mastery  in  his  mien, 
While  song  and  lady's  bower  had  given 

the  grace 

Of  flowing  vesture  and  unstudied  pose. 
With  these  was  he  to  be  forgotten? — no, 
Although  the  prize  seemed  worthless,  he 

would  play 

The    piteous    game    again, — tonight — to 
night. — 

Yellow  the  moon  upon  the  far  campaign; 
It  was  a  night  for  love, — how  many,  oh, 
How  many  such  his  memory  harvested 
In  honey-stores ! — The  bells  struck  out  the 

hour 

Of  nightly  office  from  the  distant  tower; 

The  air  was  heavy  with  memorial  scents 

25 


DON  FOLQUET 

Of  roadside  blooms  that  rose  as  ghosts 

again, 
And  o'er  them  hung  in  springtime  Penta- 

cost 
The  trailing  fireflies  with  their  tongues  of 

flame. 
Soon  up  the  pathways  of  the  town  his 

steed 
Began  to   bear   him.      Well   the   portals 

knew 
His  stately  mien;  the  castle  court  stood 

wide 
For  days  and  nights  of  peace ;  the  lighted 

hall 

Resounded  with  the  chatter  as  of  old; 
The  windows  streamed  aglow;  the  jesters' 

bells, 
The   tuning  lute,  the  laughter  long  and 

hoarse 
Of  kitchen  wenches  with  their  amorous 

swains 
And   guardsmen   sounded    'round    at   his 

approach. 
Then  the  great  doors  swung  open,  and  he 

passed 

From  the  blue  phosphor  into  golden  light. 
26 


DON  FOLQUET 

Then  the  good  Sire  Barral  cried  welcome 

hale; 

The  ladies  rose  and  curtsied;  all  the  lutes 
Grew    silent,    and    the    youthful    singers 

gazed 

Reverent  on  his  noble  form;  while  awed 
Stood  strangers  in  the  hall — a  travelling 

friar, 
A  jongleur  bound  for  far  Auvergne,   a 

Moor 

Of  Tripoli,  a  wealthy  rabbin  clad 
In  velvets,  furs  and  heavy  chain  of  gold. 
The    shaggy    hounds    glared    long    from 

where  they  stretched 
Along   the    pavement,    where    the    pages 

scarce 
Had  ceased  their  boyish  gambols,  and  the 

swish 

Of  silks  and  velvets,  and  the  play  of  pearls 
And  merry  eyes  with  light;  the  scent  of 

cloves 

And  jonquils, — all,  so  framed  within 
The  blackened  oak  and  carving  of  the  hall, 
Looked  so  familiar  that  it  scarcely  seemed 
A  fortnight  since  he  first  beheld  the  scene. 
27 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  she — Alazais — with  her  bright-eyed 

maids 
Around    her,    with     exquisite    courtliness 

made  sign 
For  room  for  him ;  the  dwarf  and  minstrel 

youth 

Withdrew,  setting  a  cushion  by  her  side. 
He  gazed  and  saw  her  fairer  than  of  old; 
The  polished  roll  of  hair  melting  in  curls 
Around  her  ears  and  down  her  slender 

neck 

Where  ancient  pearls  hung  heavy  in  a  row 
Over  her  robe  voluminous  and  rare 
With  velvet,  furs  and  jewels  at  the  belt, 
And  flowing  sleeves   and  Eastern   chate 
laine  .  .  . 

"Faithless,   Sir  Poet,  hast  thou  been  in 
deed,"— 

And  as  she  spoke  the  childlike  eyes  of  blue 
Turned  on  him  and  the  gracious  lips'  soft 

curves 
Struck    heavenly    weakness    through  his 

every  sense. — 

"Faithless,  indeed,  to  that  fair  lady  here 

Within  our  courts  who  in  that  lute  of  thine 

28 


DON  FOLQUET 

Lived  peerless   'mong   the   ladies   of   all 

lands. 

Has  she  been  heartless,  Folquet,  or  abused 
Thy  gallant  service,  that  thou  fare'st  apart 
And  leav'st  her  here  to  other  suitors' 

songs  ? 

Is  this  the  deathless  service  of  thy  soul, 
Of  which  in  springtimes  gone  thou  sang'st 

so  sweet 

That  all  the  courtly  universe  stood  still 
To  listen  and  bow  before  the  Prince  of 

Song?" 
And   he   made   answer:    "O    sweet   lady, 

grace 
For  him  who  once  among  the  blossoms 

white 
Came  to  thy  throne  when  childhood  melted 

soft 
With  scarcely  blossoming  woman  in  thy 

cheek ; 

Years  hath  he  sat  beside  thy  feet  and  told 
The  story  of  devotion  at  the  shrine, 
Whose  gracious  patron's  name  his  breast 

alone 

By  law  of  ancient  courtliness  must  keep. 

Unknown  the  idle  dreamer  came  and  sang 

29 


DON  FOLQUET 

When  all  true  lovers  listened;  for  the  spell 
Her  beauty  fostered  lent  itself  to  sound, — 
In  her  the  magicry  of  song,  in  her 
The  essence  of  his  courtliness. 
For  he   was   but  jthe   lute   whereon   her 

smile 

Trembled  to  singing  and  wherein  her  eyes 
Set  prayers  to  throbbing  aspiration  soft; 
And  while  his  hope  remained,  her  beauty 

proud 
Was  life  for  him,  was  song  for  him,  and 

fame. 
But  ah,  sweet  lady,  and  you,  fair  maiden 

throng, 

Within  the  garden  by  the  donjon  keep 
At  twilight  hour  have  ye  not  marked  the 

moths 

With  heavy  wing  seek  wearily  their  mates; 
And  some  against  the  brazier  screen  will 

dash, 
And   some   within   the   taper   singe  their 

wings, 
Consumed    for   their    desire    within    the 

flame. 
But  others  on  their  clumsy  wings  turn  up 

30 


DON  FOLQUET 

To  reach  the  star  that  trembles  to  their 

heart. 

Nightly  they  rise,  but  only  to  despair 
Of  her  unchanging  beauty,  till  the  night 
Conceals  their  piteous  questing  and  the 

winds 
Of  autumn  chill  their  hearts  with  failure; 

so, 
Sweet  ladies,   is   it  with  your  Prince   of 

Song; 

For  lighter  wings  salute  the  star  tonight, 
And  she  is  fair  and  radiant  for  all. 
Though  she  may  pity,  still  she  must  re 
main 
The  star,  and  fate  hath  made  us  as  the 

moth. 

Only  remembrance  of  her  now  is  song, 
Song  almost  turned  to  prayer — the  moth 

no  more 

Sees  her  in  love,  but  in  divinity." — 
The  elders  gazed  upon  him  half  in  awe; 
The    churchmen    seemed    submerged    in 

thought;  alone 

The  Abbot  smiled  serenely  still;  and  she 
Held  forth  her  regal  hand  that  he  might 

kiss, 


DON  FOLQUET 

Saying, — UO  Folquet,  had  the  star  a  voice 
Think'st  thou  it  might  not  rival  the  poor 

moth 

That  puts  its  deathless  song  to  melody 
And  dies  immortal,  leaving  her  to  hold 
Her  soul  imprisoned  in  its  adamant?" — 
And  as  he  bent  before  her  the  light  notes 
Of  a  tornada  seemed  to  rouse  the  group; 
The  maiden  glances  met  as  if  in  joy; 
The  lordlings  half  uneasy  and  attent 
Stirred  in  their  place  to  herald  in  a  dance. 
"A  dance!" — the  jester  cried  and  caught 

the  maid 
Who    just   had    set   the    Countess'    curls 

aright, 

And  swung  her  in  her  billowy  skirts  until 
Both  like  a  top  careered.     "A  dance!" — 

outcried 
Count  Barral, — "it  will  stir  your  pulses, 

so 
The  wine  shall  taste  the  sweeter !    To  the 

dance!" 

The  lutes  and  harps  struck  up;  the  Coun 
tess  rose 
Holding    her    hand    to    Folquet    as    she 

smiled, — 

32 


DON  FOLQUET 

"Your  hand,  Sir  Gallant,  we  shall  lead  the 

throng 

As  in  the  merry  days  by  smooth  Argens." 
The  youth  and  maids  stood  ready  in  a 

line; 
The  Abbot  whispered  at  Count  Barral's 

ear; 

Each  damsel  set  her  velvets  at  their  best; 
The  squires  slapped  their  shapely  boots, 

and  threw 
The  heavy  mantles  from  their  shoulders 

back. 

Then  Folquet  and  the  Countess  slow  began 
The  stately  dance;  a  touch  of  marvelling 
Fell  on  the  court;  the  matchless  grace  of 

both, 

Their  management  of  draperies,  the  turn 
Of  shapely  head  and  shoulder,  and  the 

ease 

And  spirit  of  their  mien!  Never  before, 
Even  in  her  earliest  bloom,  had  been  her 

grace 

So  noble  and  serene;  the  pride  of  race 
And  state  combined  with  simple  gentleness 
Until    even   rugged    Count    Barral    cried 

out, — 

33 


DON  FOLQUET 

"Countess,  you  never  danced  like  this  be 
fore  I" 

And  Folquet,  all  his  native  grace  and  ease 
Chastened  by  proud  simplicity,  his  form 
At  the  full  splendor  of  its  flower;  the  poise 
Of  Jove-like  head,  the  eye  ecstatical, 
And  the  light  touch  of  some  fatality, 
Graced  him,  as  at  some  rite  the  ancient 

priests 
With  David  moved  in  dance  before  the 

Ark. 

But  in  his  heart  the  folly  of  it  all 
Clutched  at  his  breath  almost  to  force  the 

scorn 

Upon  his  lips,  but  for  high  courtliness ; 
And  thought  like  fire  seared  athwart  his 

breast, — 
uThey  keep  their  poets  but  to  dance,  like 

bears 
The    travelling    fairsmen   lead    about    in 

chains!" 

And  as  he  swung  in  grand  obeisance  'round 
To  smile  upon  the  Countess — "This  our 

gift 

Divine  to  patter  time  upon  the  floor 
34 


DON  FOLQUET 

With  indolent  women,  oh!  the  shame  of 

it!— 
To  glad  these  boors  and  lackbrains,  while 

beyond 
They  say  the  stars  are  calling  us!     And 

when 
We  would  proclaim  their  message  to  the 

heart 
They  steal  from  us  to  those  who  will  keep 

up 
The    ceaseless    rigadoons,     dragging    us 

thereto 
In  chains  of  love  with  them,  our  feeble 

hearts 

Have  woven,  slaves  of  earth  and  misery; 
While  underneath  God  shows  our  chosen 

souls 
The  fire  that  yawns   for  earthlings,   the 

dead  fate 
Of  sinners  for  whose  thoughtless  souls  in 

vain 
He  has  outpoured  His  blood!    And  what 

reward 

Have  I  for  all  this  trifling  with  my  soul? — 
A  love  turned  worthless  as  the  hair  turns 

gray; 

35 


DON  FOLQUET 

A  love  that  yet  enthralls  me  to  the  dust, 
While  at  my  heart  a  voice  keeps  thunder 
ing, 

'Eternity!     Eternity!' — Like  some 
Poor  climber  who  amid  the  branches  light 
Dares  not  go  on,  and  dreads  even  to  re 
turn, 

I  stand  upon  the  very  brink  of  Hell; 
Yet  fearful  of  an  idle  sneer,  decline 
To  draw  me  back  from  out  my  perilous 

strait." — 

Then  as  he  knelt  to  kiss  his  partner's  hand 
At  finish  of  the  dance,  he  thought  within, 
Though  outward  smiling: — "God,  the 

mockery 

Of  all  this  stupid  rout,  while  at  our  feet 
The  flames  seem  crackling!  O  unfaithful 

heart 
Of  mine,  who  will  be  faithful,  shouldst 

thou  fail? 

I  sing  but  as  a  debt  to  folly,  and  love 
Itself  grows  weary  unto  me — yes,  weary 
With  beauty  of  fair  forms,  of  smiles,  of 

joys, 
Of  nature's  seasons  grown  monotonous  I 

36 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  oh,  my  soul,  thinkst  thou  that  to  the 

fruit 
Of  Paradise  thy  steps   shall   come,  thus 

stayed? 
To  what  strong  hand  of  evil  hast  thou 

given 
The  keys  of  thy  poor  life?    And  see,  the 

world 
Smirks  'round  and  calls  thee  'Prince   of 

Song,'   until 
The  very  sound  breeds  madness, — think, 

if  it 

Be  terror  but  to  think  of  life  upon 
This  bed  of  earthly  surfeit, — think — oh, 

think, 

Eternity  upon  a  bed  of  flames !" 
The  sweat  stood  on  his  brow;  the  grim 

thought  seemed 

To  wring  his  very  vitals,  and  he  rose 
Weak  and  all-desolate,  the  clang  of  lutes 
Wild  in  his  ears — as  all  the  gallants  turned 
To  take  their  places  for  another  dance 
With  careless  laughter   and  new-fangled 

moves. 

A  moment  more  he  paused  beside  the  deep 
Embrasured  casement  till  Alazais, 
37 


DON  FOLQUET 

Oblivious  of  all,  but  of  her  curls, 

Her  train   and   trinkets   and  the  boyish 

smile 

Of  light  Sir  Miraval,  her  newest  sprout 
Of  courtliness   and  song,   moved  out  to 

dance. 

The  silver  spiral  of  Argens  called  forth 
Across  the  moonlit  scrolling  of  the  hills. 
Unmarked  he  hastened  forth,  and  passed 

along 

The  gloomy  passages  into  the  court. 
There  by  a  yellow  lamp  that  seemed  to 

smirk 

In  envy  at  the  moon  his  esquires  sat 
With  other  menials  at  a  rough  repast. 
Then  while  they  brought  the  horses  forth 

from  out 

The  shadows  of  the  mews,  he  heard  be 
hind 
The  Abbot's  voice  approaching,   and  he 

sprang 

Into  his  saddle,  as  the  churchman  came 
Out  at  the  door,  and  called, — uTarry  a 

while, 
My  son,  until  my  steed  be  ready,  then 

38 


DON  FOLQUET 

Shall  we  ride  forth  together."     So,  they 

passed 

Through  the  white  outskirts  of  the  sleep 
ing  town, 
By   snowy  bridges,   where   the   flecks   of 

bloom 
Rippled  before  them  like  a  foam-tipped 

surge ; 

They  heard  the  bells  of  Torondet  afar 
Tolling  sonorous  peace  unto  the  stars. 
The  city  lights  were  lost  behind  the  hills 
As  the  swift  steeds  sped  on  along  the  road 
Beside  Argens  where  now  and  then  a  frog 
Croaked  at  the  marge, — a  gleaming  trout 

sprang  up 

And  vanished  almost  like  a  falling  star. 
In  silence  Folquet  and  the  Abbot  rode 
Ahead;  the  squires  and  novices  kept  up 
Their  youthful  chatter  far  behind;  at  times 
Around    the    hills    the     mounted    monks' 

white  hoods 

And  habits  and  the  glittering  of  the  steel 
And  trappings  of  the  squires  would  lend  a 

touch 
Of   spectral  to  the   band;   and  when    at 

length 

39 


DON  FOLQUET 

Between  the  heavy  trees  the  pathway  led 
Apart  to  Folquet's  dwelling,  the  old  monk 
Laying  his  hand  upon  the  poet's  arm 
Whispered : — *'There  is  no  slumber  there, 

my  son; 

At  Torondet  thy  cell  stands  ready,  come ; 
Tonight  the  heavens  are  calling  thee ;  look 

up, 
Thy  destiny    hath    made    thee    for    the 

stars!"— 

And  Folquet  melting  almost  into  tears 
Raised  the  old  Abbot's  ring  and  kissing  it 
Said, — "Father,  thou  sayst  aright;  yea,  I 

would  gain 

My  soul's  reprieve;  lead  me  to  Toron 
det." 


II 

Ten  times  the  orchard  slops  of  Torondet 
Had  borne  their  fruitage,  and  ten  times 

the  spring 
Passed  with  its  blossoms  over  hedge  and 

vine; 
The  bells  by  day  and  night  communed  on 

high 

40 


DON  FOLQUET 

With  holy  calms;  and  from  the  cloister 

church 

Incense  and  prayer  and  sacrifice  arisen. 
But  not  in  those  grim  towers  had  passed 

the  days 

As  in  the  fretted  shrines  of  Italy 
Or  in  the  glittering  sanctuaries  of  France, 
Where  monk  and  prelate  swept  in  ritual 

train ; 

But  like  a  fortress  set  against  the  world 
The  walls  of  Torondet  amid  the  hills 
Spoke  out  defiance.     There  had  Folquet 

dwelt 

Until  his  cowl  itself  had  come  to  seem 
A  very  part  of  being,  and  the  paths 
And  arches  of  the  cloister  took  the  scope 
Of  all  the  world.    There  in  his  daily  tasks 
Of  prayer  and  office,  feast,  and  fast,  and 

work 

In  his  still  corner  of  the  Scriptory 
He  one  by  one  rubbed  out  the  stains  of 

life, 

Its  frail  affections,  its  distractions  vain, 
Till,  if  by  chance  a  minstrel  down  the  road 
Touched  at  his  lute,  he  hardly  heard  or 

raised 


DON  FOLQUET 

His  head  from  off  his  frame  of  vellum 

skin, — 

So  had  his  century  been  lost  to  him. 
But  not  at  first  his  cloister  was  secure; 
A  word  dropped  lightly  in  the  pilgrim's 

hall, 

An  ancient  name  repeated  on  the  scrolls, 
Set  all  his  heart  ablaze,  and  some  from  far 
Would  gaze  on  him  who  had  been  "Prince 

of  Song," 

Whereat  he  drew  the  hood  upon  his  face. 
At  times  across  the  sunlit  hills  would  float 
The  hunting  horn;  or  in  the  spring  a  band 
Of  dames  and  courtiers  wandered  down 

the  road, 
And  something  clutched  like  a  tiger  at  his 

throat, 

Until  he  fled  and  cast  himself  in  fear 
Before  the  sombre  shrine — and  they  were 

gone. 

The  nights  to  him  grew  terrible;  his  cell 
Echoed  the  trumpets  of  a  hundred  kings; 
Tourneys  and  battles  swept  across  his 

dreams, 
And  in  the  throng  came  women  he  had 

loved, 

42 


DON  FOLQUET 

From  Genoa,  Marseilles  and  Syria. 
Among  them  one  there  was  with  empress1 

crown, 
And  one,  whose  lovely  arms  were  bruised 

with  chains, 
Used  the  sweet  voice  of  old: — UO  Fol- 

quet,  thou 
That    slumberest   in    a    distant    cell    hast 

shared 
With  me  the  joys  for  which  my  lord,  Bar- 

ral, 

Dooms  me  today  within  my  buried  pit. 
Alazais  am  I — hast  thou  forgotten? 
See,  where  thy  kisses  were,  now  dungeon 

rats 

Have  bitten !    Would  I  had  fled  with  thee 
While  there  was  time !     Would  that  thy 

lips  were  mine 

Here  in  this  dungeon,  so  the  pit  of  hell 
Might  take  us  both  in  that  embrace !  Alas, 
Think  not  that  thou  canst  steal  to  heaven 

alone; 
God  is  no  earthly  prince  that  thou  canst 

cheat  ; 
Throw  off  that  cowl,  thy  courtier  robe  was 

best; 

43 


DON  FOLQUET 

Thou  canst  not  pander  to  a  God  so  justl" 
And  at  the  matin  bell  the  brothers  saw 
How  like  a  corpse  he  sat  within  his  stall, 
Nor  took  that  day  his  humble  crust  of 

bread, 
Nor     silence     broke     within     the     times 

allowed, 
Then  when  they  sang  the  Noel  midnight 

mass 
Before  the  peasants   gathered   from   the 

hills, 
His  voice  was  hardly  heard;  but  when  the 

chant 
Rose  o'er  some  brother's  corpse,  at  Tene- 

brae, 

They  heard  his  Miserere  like  a  knell 
Trembling  among  the  arches  to  a  sob. 
The  younger  brothers  paled  when  he  in 
toned, 

"Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  return 
Unto  the  Lord  thy  God  I" — so  terrible 
His  accent! — So  it  passed  that  he  was  held 
A  saint  uncannonized,  and  prelates  came 
To  crave  his  prayers  and  wisdom, — till 

one  day 

A  Templar,  resting  in  the  hall,  announced 
44 


DON  FOLQUET 

The  tidings   from   Marseilles,   that  Bar- 

ral's  wife, 

Alazais,  had  died.  And  Folquet  heard, 
Nor  spoke  nor  gave  a  sign,  but  sat  before 
His  vellum  all  the  day  like  some  carved 

piece 

Of  stone,  until  the  master  saw  his  state 
And  had  him  carried,  senseless,  to  his  cell. 
And  on  the  vellum  they  beheld  this  song— 
Upon  the  margin,  last  of  all  he  wrote : — 

"How  the  weary  years  are  sped, 
That  they  tell  me  scornfully 

Alazais  the  fair  is  dead, 

And  wait  my  tears  to  see  ! — 

uBut  no  more  mine  eyes  reply 

Than  when  came  the  dreary  word, 

One  had  seen  King  Richard  die, 
One  Toulouse's  knightly  lord. 

"They  say  the  King  of  Aragon 
The  great  Alfonso  is  at  rest — 

And  now  they  heap  the  clay  upon 
Alazais — God  ease  her  breast!" — 
45 


DON'  FOLQUET 

Thenceforth  at  his  approach  the  laughter 

died 

Among  the  playful  groups  of  novices; 
The  older  fathers  in  their  lighter  moods 
Avoided  him;  and  as  the  days  wore  on 
He  grew  to  be  a  figure  strange,  remote, 
Robed  with  an  undefined  authority. 
Thus    when    the    aged   Abbot    died,    the 

monks 

Proclaimed  him  mitred  Lord  of  Torondet. 
For  evil  days  had  come  upon  Provence, 
And  strenuous  hands  were  needed  at  the 

helm 

To  guide  the  holy  ship  of  Christ  amid 
The  waves  that  rose  against  it.    Christen 
dom 
Was  whispering  with  scandals  grave  and 

dread, 

That  at  Toulouse  the  spectre  of  the  Fiend 
Had  raised  again  his  Manichean  horns. 
Within  the  town  the  brothers  had  been 

met 

With  jeers  and  insults,  churches  been  pro 
faned 

And  tabernacles  rifled.  There  were  tales 
46 


DON  FOLQUET 

Of  fearful  rites  among  the  hills  by  night; 

The  woods  were  red  with  fires;  by  the 
road 

Strange  voices  came  and  went,  and  some 
times  shrieked 

Their  blasphemies  against  the  gateside 
rood. 

By  the  red  trails  from  Rome  the  haughty 
train 

Of  legates  came  and  went  in  flaming  haste ; 

And  messengers  rushed  daily  from  Toul 
ouse 

Bearing  Count  Raimon's  parleys  with  the 
Pope. 

Until  one  night  upon  the  abbey  gate 

Thundered  the  knocker  and  the  porter 
came 

To  rouse  him  in  his  cell,  with  messages 

For  Abbot  Folquet  sent  by  Innocent, 

Sealed  with  the  signet  of  the  Fisherman. 

And  Folquet  rose  and  read  the  ordi 
nance, — 

That  he  set  forth  at  once  unto  Toulouse, 

Drag  down  the  traitor  Bishop  from  his 
chair, 

47 


DON  FOLQUET 

On  his  own  finger  slip  the  amethyst, 
And  hold  the  town  in   fee   for  Mother 

Church. 
Then  the  first  joy  that  he  had  known  for 

years 

Seized  on  his  heart,  and  in  a  fevered  haste 
He  summoned  forth  the  Abbot's  coach  of 

state, 
Bade  the   roused  brothers  to   attend  his 

will, 

And  without  scrip  or  luggage  rode  away 
Before  the  morn  could  break.     But  as  he 

went 

He  heard  the  matin  bells  ring  out  afar 
Behind  him  in  the  tower  of  Torondet; 
And  in  his  memory  wakened  that  strange 

night  * 

When     first    their    peace    and    sweetness 

wooed  his  soul. 
For  now  it  seemed  that  after  all  these 

years 
'Twas  fated  he  should  know  their  calm  no 

more. 

He  saw  the  sun  arising  on  the  hills 
And  bowed  his  head  in  mystical  commune 
48 


DON  FOLQUET 

With  his  far  brothers  offering  now  their 

mass 
In  unison  for  him  and  his  emprise. 

Full  bitter  the  emprise :  Toulouse,  the  fair 
Rose-garden  city  of  the  South,  was  now 
A  thicket  full  of  thorns  for  all  its  blooms. 
He    who    sat    down    beneath    its   mitre's 

weight 

Bore  a  great  load  of  sorrows  and  chagrins ; 
For  here  the  ancient  East  had  spread  its 

nets, 

And  rebels  and  heresiarchs  had  crouched 
Beneath  the  favor  of  successive  lords 
Whose  minds  were  sole  intent  to  profit 

hard 
And  sow  their  fertile  fields  of  France  with 

seeds 

Of  pleasure  light  and  carnal  indolence. 
Like  thunder  from  a  summer  cloud,  the 

voice 
Of  Rome  had  rumbled  o'er  the  land,  to 

warn 
Of  storms  to  come;  the  vineyard  laughter 

brought 

49 


DON  FOLQUET 

The  answer  of  Provence;  the  gathering 

gloom 

Of  hurricanes  grew  darker,  yet  the  sound 
Of  lutes,  like  the  cicadas,  never  ceased. 
The   Legates   came    and   went; — "Make 

straight  His  paths!" — 
They  cried — "We  are  the  cherubim  that 

wield 
The  flaming  sword  to  guard  the  tree  of 

life! 
Behold,  He  saith,  'I  will  My  vengeance 

wreak 

Upon  my  enemies  and  will  reward 
All  them  that  hate  Me!' — Lo,  we  sound 

for  you 
The  trumpets  of  the  Lord ! — 'Let  all  flesh 

know 
That  I  the  Lord  have  drawn  my  sword 

from  forth 

Its  sheath;  nor  shall  return  it  more!' — 
Divide    not   ye    His    seamless    robe !" — 

Vainly 
Count  Raimon  countered  and  excused  in 

vain. 
"Cast     forth     your     Cathari's     accursed 

spawn; 

50 


DON  FOLQUET 

You  nurse  a  cancer-spot  within  our  breast; 
We  are  the  Law  and  Prophets;  we  must 

keep 
Eternal     covenant     with    the     Christian 

world!"— 
But  he  replied:  "They  are  good  men  and 

free ; 
I  cannot  force  their  souls;  your  churchmen 

laws 
Are  not   for  all.     And   I   am   sovereign 

here!"— 
So  the  French  King    Augustus,    knowing 

well 

His  feeble  powers  over  proud  Toulouse, 
Held  back,  the  while  a  harvest  crop  of 

crimes 

Grew  daily  greater  till  that  fatal  day 
The  dirk  from  out  Count  Raimon's  court 

cut  down 

The  Papal  Legate  Peter;  then  the  steeds 
Of  Montfort  whinnied  on  the  blast  for 

blood 
And  vengeance.      Folquet  on  his  purple 

throne 
Sat  like  a  spider  'mid  a  tangled  net, 


DON  FOLQUET 

Not  all  his  weaving  but  the  hellish  woof 
Of  doom  impending. — 

The   Crusaders   paused: — 
"Shall  we  leave  here  a  nest  of  infamies 
That  blacken  all  our  Christendom,  to  fare 
Abroad  for  Paynims? — Here  a  band  that 

scorns 
Our  Church,  our  Christ,  our  sacraments 

and  laws? — 

A  brood  unnatural  that  threats  our  state 
With  dissolution,  that  no  contract-oath 
Or  true  confession  can  control,  nor  priest 
Can  serve,  nor  sacrifice  command? — Their 

death  I 
Their  death!   or  penance!     For  we  are 

the  law 
On  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven !" — 

Fury  spread 
Its  blast-wide  wings,  the  warring  hordes 

swept  on 
Through  burning  cities,  fallen  walls,  and 

towers, 
And  blackened  regions  red  with  streams 

of  blood, 
While  Carcassonne  and  ravaged  Beziers 

shone 

52 


DON  FOLQUET 

Like  two  red  wounds  upon  the  brows  of 

Time. 
Then    Folquet    riding    closed   within    his 

coach 

Sought  his  grim,  hostile  city  of  Toulouse, 
His  nose  grown  thin  and  sharp,  his  eyes 

on  fire, 
His  jaws  set  hard  to   serve  his  priestly 

task, 
His  hands  gripped  firmly  on  the  crozier 

staff. 
Beside   him   Brother    Dominic,     clad    in 

white, 
Had  heard  the  mocking  lutes  within  the 

court 
Strike  off  his  ancient  lay,  "The  Blossom 

Time 
Of  Spring."    And  Folquet  sighed:   "Shall 

nevermore 

My  ears  be  free  of  that  poor  feeble  song? 
We  have  stripped  off  the  splendor  of  our 

state, 

Put  by   our   robes   and  trains   and   'out 
riders, 
And  driven  forth  all  that  would  a  scandal 

give 

53 


DON  FOLQUET 

To  our  opponents  here  or  make  their  poor 
False  argument  for  wrong.    Still,  still  that 

song 

Is  flung  at  me  whene'er  I  venture  forth — 
A  pitiless  rejoinder  from  the  flesh 
When  I  would  urge  the  spirit's  higher  call. 
From  out  Count  Raimon's  window  leaned 

a  form, 

A  woman  such  as  men  call  beautiful, 
Who  cast  upon  me  flowers   and  smiling 

cried,  — 
Tor  thee,  thou  "Prince  of  Song"!'     And 

I  grew  weak 
As    through    my   heart   the    thorn    went 

straight  to  pierce 
My   very  life.      But   come,   no   more   of 

this, — 

This  day  I  come  my  deacons  to  ordain; 
But  first  have  asked  Count  Raimon,  thrice 

accursed 
By   Mother   Church,  to   leave   the   town 

awhile, 

So  I  may  act  in  my  episcopal  rite. 
This  can  he  scarce  refuse.     I  now  await 
His  answer."     Soon  within  the  Bishop's 

hall 

54 


DON  FOLQUET 

There  came  with  escort  a  young  trouba 
dour; 
His  locks  all  curling  gold,  his  lute  strung 

high 

Against  his  thigh;  he  read  in  lisping  tones 
Count    Raimon's    answer — "Bishop,    you 

who  were 

In  olden  time  our  Prince  of  Song,  and  now 
By  voice  of  Rome  empowered  would  wage 

a  war 

For  Rome,  although  a  stranger  seated  in 
Our  citadel, — know   that  Count   Raimon 

here 
Is  sovereign  Lord, — nor  thinks  he  to  fare 

forth 

To  hunt  without  the  city,  nor  to  feast 
Within   the    woods;    for   there's    a    flock 

abroad 

Of  wolves  too  ravenous  and  hunger-led; 
Nor  is  there  tourney,  nor  a  court  of  love 
Now  that  the  Prince  of  Song  would  scorn 

the  lute. 
Therefore  Count  Raimon  bids  Don  Fol- 

quet  rise 

Betimes  tomorrow,  and  go  forth  himself 
With  all  his  traitorous  White  Company, 
55 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  leave  Toulouse  and  its  true  citizens 
Free  of  their  presence.    Let  him  join  out 
side 
With   Montfort's  legions  waiting  at  La- 

vaur. 

There  shall  he  be  at  home  and  find  his  will 
Accomplished  as  he  wishes.  At  the  break 
Of  day  our  gates  shall  open.  Issue  forth 
If  you  do  value  life!" — 

And  Folquet  rose 

From  out  his  seat  and  answered, — "Mes 
senger, 

Go  back  to  Count  Raimon  and  say  that  I, 
Once  Prince  of  Song,  am  now  his  Bishop 

here. 

It  was  not  he  who  made  me  Bishop,  nor 
Have  I  come  hither  on  account  of  him. 
I  came  not  as  intruder,  nor  by  force 
Of  any  earthly  prince,  nor  will  I  go 
Because  he  orders.    Let  him  do  his  worst! 
Ready  am  I  to  know  his  knife,  that  I 
May  gain  my  glory  through  the  chalice 

blood 

Of  my  deliverance !     I  am  all  alone, — 
Unarmed, — so  let  him  come.     For  I  am 
called 

56 


DON  FOLQUET 

The  Bishop  of  the  Devils — be  it  so — 
For    here    are    devils,    and    I    am    their 

Lord!"— 
But  Raimon  stirred  not  forth  against  him 

now, 
Though  for  a  month  he  waited.    Then  at 

last 

Came  Brother  Dominic  unto  him  and  said: 

"Tis  time  to  go;  the  city's  doom  is  sealed; 

Let  us  prepare,  and  lead  our  Christians 

forth!"— 

All  through  the  night  the  rumor  ran  apace 
From   church   to   convent   and  to   church 

again : 
"Prepare   to   leave   Toulouse;   the    Lord 

hath  given 
His  word;  let  us  go  forth  in  peace  and 

right!"— 
And  through  the  streets  and  squares  as 

morning  broke 
The  banners  of  the  faith  spread  on  the 

breeze 
And  a  great  throng  of  folk,  layman  and 

clerk, 
Marched  amid  hymning  toward  the  outer 

gate. 

57 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  every  priest  and  monk  went  up  their 

shrines, 
Opened  the  tabernacle  door  and  took  the 

Host 
And  chalice  on  their  breast  and  quenched 

the  light 

Before  the  altars — and  toward  the  gate 
Went  forth  in  solemn  ritual  pomp.     And 

last 
Came  Folquet  in  his  mitre  crowned,  his 

cope 
All  gold  around  him,  pressed  against  his 

breast 
The  Sacrament  and  monstrance  from  the 

shrine 
Of  the  cathedral. 

In  his  train  there  swarmed 
His  priests  and    monks    and    Dominic's 

throngs  in  white, 
With  women  and  their  children,  and  the 

old; 
While   o'er  his  head  his   deacons   newly 

made 

Upheld  the  silken  canopy  that  marked 
The    holiest    point    in   the    cortege.  .  .  . 

And  when 


DON  FOLQUET 

He  reached  the  castle  gates  he  paused  and 

raised 
His    monstrance    as    a    sign    of    warning 

there, — 
When   slowly  on  their  hinges   the   great 

doors 

Swung  open,  and  within  the  courtyard  wide 
Knelt  all  Count  Raimon's   household  on 

the  stones; 

And  at  their  head  the  Count  himself,  amid 
The  womenfolk  that  made  the  scandals 

wing 

Adown  the  whispering  echoes  of  the  world. 
Don  Folquet's  cheek  grew  pale  before  the 

sight. 

He  placed  the  monstrance  within  Domin 
ic's  hands, 
And  strode  across  the  gateway. — "Count 

Raimon, 

And  you,  his  servitors,  what  mockery 
Of  reverence  is  here?    Have  I  not  warned 
In  words  of  Holy  Rome,  that  on  your 

heads 
The  interdict  would  fall? — the  while  you 

laughed 

59 


DON  FOLQUET 

And  mocked  the  distant  thunders  of  the 

Pope? 

And  you,  Sire  Count,  have  sent  me  mes 
sages, 

Commanding  me  to  go,  but  I,  unarmed 
Save  by  the  Holy  Ghost's  supernal  powers, 
Have  scorned  your  warrant  and  authority. 
For  there  is  none,  save  him  in  Rome,  to 

give 

Command  to  Bishop  Folquet.  By  the  right 
Of   God's   appointed,   have   I   come   and 

stayed, 

And  still  do  hold  the  spiritual  fief 
Upon  Toulouse!" — Count   Raimon  then 

arose, 
"Bishop,"  he  said,  "we  know  no  compeer 

here; 

The  sovereign  county  of  Toulouse  belongs 
To  us  by  right  of  our  inheritance; 
We  have  allowed  the  power  of  Rome  to 

place 

Upon  our  Bishop's  throne  an  enemy, 
No  friend  unto  our  customs  of  Toulouse, 
An  enemy  within  our  citadel 
To  scheme  for  our  undoing.     Have  we 

not 

60 


DON  FOLQUET 

At  various  times  sought  at  the   Roman 
throne 

For  reconcilement,  and  done  penance  for 

Our    sins    of    flesh,    and   granted    to    the 
church 

Her      rights      and      privileges      in      our 
realms?"— 

"Yes,"  cried  Don  Folquet,— "With  your 
left  hand  out 

To  her,  the  while  your  right  caressed  your 
sins, 

Fostered  the  Cathari's  abhorred  bands; 

Let  loose  their  leprosy  upon  the  world, 

The  while  you  turned  upon  your  couch 
of  lust 

And  feast  and  song.     While  we,  the  min 
isters 

Of   God's   appointment,   waged   a   losing 
war, 

You  fed  the  crumbs  of  favor  to  the  beasts 

Who  would  destroy  our  Church  and  Chris 
tendom  ! 

Today,  in  joy,  by  our  own  will  not  yours, 

We  go  to  join  our  brothers  of  the  Cross. 

Your  power  is  not  for  us;  Rome  has  cut 
off 

61 


DON  FOLQUET 

The  stream  of  our  obedience  to  your  laws, 
And  you   are   outcast  from  her   font   of 

grace, — 
You,   and  all  these  who   serve  you,   are 

condemned 

By  interdict.  There  is  your  final  doom!" — 
"Nay,  Bishop,  we  are  Christians  here,  I 

swear 

Again;  go  forth,  if  so  you  will,  but  leave 
Some  monk  or  priest  with  power  to  ab 
solve 
And    consecrate    the    Host,    for   we    aTe 

placed 

In  battle-line  to  meet  Don  Simon's  troops, 
And  fierce  and  terrible  the  fight  must  be, 
And  some  shall  fall  beneath  the  deadly 

press, 

And  the  priest's  holiest  office  is  to  say 
Last   absolution" — "Will   you    then    sub 
mit," 
Demanded    Folquet,     "to    the    Legate's 

powers ; 

Surrendering  Toulouse  and  all  your  rights 
Into  the  hands  of  Rome?"     "You  ask  too 
great 

62 


DON  FOLQUET 

A  price,"  Count  Raimon  said,  "we  are  to 
day 
But  suppliants  at  the  priestly  doors  for 

grace 

Of  spirit,  not  for  temporal  ordinance. 
We  have  our  foes  political  but  choose 
One  God,  one  Cross,  and  one  communion. 
The  temporal  Rome  against  us  wages  war, 
And  we  resist,  but  not  the  spiritual! — 
Join  ye  our  enemies,  your  friends  outside, 
But  shut  us  not  beyond  the  Christian  fold ! 
Though  warring,  we  are  brothers  in  the 

blood 
Of  Christ!"—  "Nay,  Count,"  the  Bishop 

answered  him, 
"Divide   not   God's   appointment  to   His 

Church 

With  your  own  usurpation  of  a  power 
Which  you  have  forfeited!     To  Caesar, 

give 
All    that    belongs    to     Caesar, — nothing 

more! 
You  have  usurped  the  right  of  Mother 

Church 

To  judge  of  things  of  dogma,  rite, 
And  discipline.    Your  easy  tolerance 

63 


DON  FOLQUET 

Of  vice  and  error  have  become  your  boast 
Instead  of  shame.     Some  natural  grace, 

some  vice, 
Some  looseness  in  the  life  and  creed  of 

these 

Your  Catharists  has  led  your  sense  astray; 
But  we,  the  God-appointed  judges  of  the 

Church, 

The  guardians  of  His  never-ceasing  grace, 
The  wielders  of  His  sole  authority, 
We    do   behold   and  judge   them   to  the 

sword — 

Not  pitiless,  for  we  have  urged  and  prayed 
For  their  conversion — but  in  vain !     And 

now 

Their  doom  has  fallen — and  your  doom, 
Lapped  in  your  vices,  with  your  mind  on 

earth 

And  not  upon  eternal  guidance  placed — 
Your  doom,  as  well,  O  Count  Raimon,  is 

here! 

So  without  blessing  do  I  go  my  way; 
And  God  goes  with  me !  See,  your  churches 

bare, 
Your  tapers  quenched,  your  blessed  stoups 

gone  dry! 


DON  FOLQUET 

The  child  shall  cry  in  vain  to  know  the 

font; 

The  penitent  turn  vainly  for  the  priest; 
The  dying  find  no  blessing  at  the  end  I 
Give  me  the  monstrance  of  my  God" — He 

took 

The  golden  disc  upon  his  breast  again : — 
"And  now,   my  brothers,   let  us   on  our 

way!"— 

Then  silent  walked  he  to  the  outer  gate, 
Where,  lifting  high  the   Host,   he   cried 

afar, — 

"Jerusalem!     Jerusalem!  oh,  why 
Hast  thou  forsaken  Me!     Behold,  Toul 
ouse, 
Thy  doom  is  come  upon  thee!     Like  the 

dust 

Before  the  wind  the  Angel  of  the  Lord 
Shall   scatter  thee!      Remember   Carcas 
sonne  ! 
Remember  dread  Beziers!     Thy  doom  is 


come  !"- 


Then  he  was  gone,  the  city  streets  grew 
still 

And  half  deserted.  Men  looked  fearful- 
eyed 

65 


DON  FOLQUET 

At  one  another.     On  the  hills  the  crash 
Of  far-off  thunder  trembled  to  their  souls ; 
Great  drops  of  rain — not  blood  as  yet — 
Splashed  on  the   pavements.     Wide   the 

churches  gaped 
With    doors    unbarred    and    tabernacles 

bare 

Of  all  their  sacred  store.    One  voice  alone, 
A  sweet  and  tragic  voice,  came  floating 

forth 
Across  the  castle  walls,  like  some   calm 

bird 

Amid  the  troubled  branches  ere  the  storm, 
Singing  unmoved  "The  Blossom  Time  of 

Spring." 


66 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

From  "Alhambra  Songs" 

STILL  I  remember  the  dread  morn  they 

came 
Across   the   mountains;   how  the   sudden 

flame 
Leaped  from  the  castle  windows,  and  the 

cry 

Of  fear  and  rapine  echoed  on  the  sky; 
While    I,    poor    outcast,    called    Maruja 

then, 
Watching  the  village  goats,  saw  from  the 

glen 

Our  hill-folk  slain  at  every  hovel  door, 
And   ravening   horsemen    smeared    with 

foam  and  gore 
Sacking  the  shrine.   They  snatched  me  up 

and  fled 

Across  the  passes.    All  that  night  the  red 
Of  signal  fires  shone  on  the  peaks,  the 

sound 

67 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT1 

Of   warning  bells    rose    from   the   vales 

around. 
Swift  were  their  barbs,  for  at  the  dawning 

light 

I  saw  Granada's  plain,  and  ere  the  night 
Its  market-place,  wherein  they  led  me  out 
And  sold  me  weeping  'mid  the  din  and 

shout. 
'Twas  a  good  price,  wise  Edriz,  that  you 

paid 
For  me  a  wild  thing  from  the  mountain 

glade ! 

When  you  had  seen  me  bathed  and  per 
fumed  sweet — 

My  hair  all  unguents,  robed  unto  my  feet 
In  Persian  silks  and  pearls  in  strings  that 

glowed 

Like  rainbow  fetters — then  along  the  road 
At  morn  you  led  me  on  a  palfrey  white 
Across  the  city  squares  and  up  Alhambra's 

height. 

Yea,  beautiful  was  Yussuf  on  that  day 
He  welcomed  me!     They  bade  me  bend 

and  say 
"Salaam,"  and  then  he  took  me  by  the 

hand. 

68 


ARIFA  'THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

All  cloth  of  gold  his  raiment  was,  a  band 

Of  diamonds  on  his  forehead,  when  he 
spoke 

And  named  me  first  "Arifa"  there  awoke 

The  woman  in  my  breast;  the  flush  of 
shame 

And  rapture  coursing  swiftly  through  my 
frame 

Was  sign  I  loved  him. — But  'twas  ever  so 

With  each  new  plaything  from  the  mart 
below; 

For  there  was  none  like  him  to  touch  the 
lute 

And  stringed  kanun;  the  nightingales  were 
mute 

In  ecstasy  to  hear  his  voice ;  his  smile 

Was  as  the  springtime  through  some  pearl- 
strewn  isle. 

And  oft  at  twilight,  spell-bound  'neath  his 
glance, 

We  heard  him  read  ghazdl  or  fond  ro 
mance 

Of  his  own  fashioning, — some  precious 
phrase 

From  Hafiz  or  Ibn-Zemric  or  the  lays 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

Of    old    Firdausi's    Book   of    Kings,    en- 
scrolled 

On  vellums  stained  in  scarlet  and  in  gold. 
That  I  outshone  them — I,  Arifa,  tree 
On   which  his   daylight   blossomed — that 

for  me 

All  yielded  place  upon  his  bosom  there — 
Zora  the  Malagan,  Zoraida  rare, 
Maisuna  and  Borina,  beauties  vain 
From  Kairouan,  Algeria  and  Spain — 
Served  but  to  whet  my  restless  heart  with 

pride 
Of  conquest.     Soon  they  taught  my  hands 

to  glide 

O'er  ivory-fret  tanburs,  my  feet  to  glide 
In  tinkling  anklets,  craftily  to  trace 
My  lids  with  stibials,  my  finger  tips 
To  stain  with  henna ;  framed  my  northern 

lips 
To  murmur  prayers  to  Allah,  songs  and 

praise 
To     Yussuf     in     their     jewelled     Arab 

phrase, — 

Yet  spite  his  treasures,  spite  Alhisn's  re 
treats, 

70 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

Its  fountains,  lutes,  and  perfumes,  gems 

and  sweets — 

Spite  of  them  all,  had  I  not  solace  found 
In    Yussuf's    love,    no    blandishment    or 

bound 
Had  kept  me  long  from  plunging  from  the 

height 

Upon  the  roofs  below.  Even  so  at  night 
When  on  the  terrace  I  could  steal  alone 
And    leave    the    ceaseless    revel,    weary 

grown 

Of  Eastern  tales  from  out  Scheherazade, 
Of  tittering  dwarfs,  of  chess  of  gold  and 

jade — 
Up   from  the   depths   of   some   Granada 

street 
Would   rise   at  times   a   serenade   blown 

sweet 
And    wild, — such    times    came    thoughts, 

swift  thoughts  like  blows 
Against  my  forehead.     Had  the  heaven 

that  gave 

No  father  to  me,  meant  me  for  a  slave 
Though  born  of  mountain  blood?     Then 

when  I  heard 
In  spring  or  autumn  the  returning  bird — 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

The   flocking   swallows    from   Morocco's 

shore, 
Twitter  and  call  outside  the  Tower  once 

more, — 
It  seemed  the  glamor  died  from  Yussuf's 

eyes; 

I  shrank  from  his  fond  arms  with  smoth 
ered  cries 
Among    the    silken    pillows. — Thus    the 

years 
Wore  on;  then  came — one  midnight — on 

our  ears 

The  rush  of  Askari  across  the  Court 
Of  Cisterns;  at  the  gateway  loud  report 
And  voices  clamoring  "Open,"     Peering 

out 

We  saw  'twas  Abu-Said  with  his  rout 
Of  guards  and  torchmen.  Silent  terror  fell 
On  our  Alhisn.    Again  the  citadel 
Rang  with  the  summons  "Open!"     From 

on  high 

Yussuf  behind  the  lattice  made  reply: — 
"Vizier  of  mighty  Ismail,  the  hour 
Is  late  that  brings  thee  to   our  fortress 

tower; 

72 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT'1 

Speak,  is  there  message  from  Granada's 

King, 
Whose  name  be  ever  blessed,  thou  dost 

bring?" 

Then  Abu-Sai'd  answered — "Message  none 
From  Ismail  bring  I  tonight,  O  Son 
Of   Mightiness, — but   tidings    thou    must 

know; 

Death's  Angel  Azrael  hath  stricken  low 
Thy  brother  Ismail ;  thou  now  art  Lord 
Of  Sceptre,  Key  and  Diadem  and  Sword.n 
But  Yussuf  cried: — "Nay,  'tis  some  bale 
ful  dream 
Hath  witched  thee,  O  Vizier,  that  thou 

shouldst  deem 

Great  Ismail  dead;  no  portent  of  the  night, 
No  comet  blazes,  such  as  marks  the  flight 
From  earth  of  souls  like  his!" — "Nay,  in 

the  gloom 
Great  Azrael  marked  thy  brother  for  the 

tomb. 
Throw  wide  Alhisn's  resounding  fortress 

gates; 
Come  thou  and  rule  Alhambra  1" — "Lo, 

what  fates, 

73 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

What   tempests    ask   you  that  the   poor 

caged  wing 

Shall  brave  ?  'Tis  for  the  eagle  to  be  king 
Of  the  Sierras!  Mine  the  lizard's  state 
Warmed  in  the  sunshine  at  my  brother's 

gate."— 
But  as  they  spoke  across  the  Courtyard 

wide, 

Approached  the  royal  litter;  stretched  in 
side 

Beneath  the  torchlight  the  dead  Ismai'l  lay, 
A  king  in  death!     Still  Yussuf  in  dismay 
Lest  Abu-Sai'd  with  some  fatal  snare 
Contrive  to  seize  him,  draped  his  garment 

rare 
About    my    shoulders,    on    my    forehead 

bound 

The  princely  turban ;  then  upon  the  ground 
Lurked  hidden  'mong  the  slaves.  With 

armed  clang 
They   passed    our   gates;    the   trembling 

arches  rang 

Proclaiming  Yussuf.     Stealthily  he  drew 
Beside  the  litter,  creeping  till  he  knew 
And  touched   the   body;    cold   indeed   in 

death 

74 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

Lay    Ismail,     lifeless    there    without    a 

breath  — 

Then  Yussuf  rose  on  high  and  I  was  cast 
Beneath  him  with  a  gesture  as  he  passed. 
'Twas  dawn  ere  with  the  drums  and  gongs 

he  went 

Beyond  the  Lion's  Court;  the  battlement 
Flaming  the  signals  to  the  mountain  forts. 
Then  closed  the  gates  on  us;  Alhisn's  far 

courts 
Shook  with  the  clamor  of  the  bolts.    How 


Alas,   how   drear  —  that  lonely  break   of 

day!  — 

But  his  Arifa,  his  sweet  tree  of  day, 
Had    all    her   blossoms    too   been   swept 

away, 

That  never  to  Alhambra's  royal  bower 
He  summoned  her?  —  yea,  never  from  that 

hour 
Returned  unto  Alhisn  !  —  They  brought  me 

word 

He  craved  the  parrot,  a  sharp-witted  bird 
That  spoke  some  quips  from  Sadi;  once 

again 

Did  he  recall  me,  once,  but  only  then 
75 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

To  claim  anew  the  ruby  called  "The  Heart 
Of  Andalusia."     Where  we  lay  apart 
And  half-forgotten  in  Alhisn,  there  still 
Came  rumors  of  revolts.    The  times  were 

in. 

The  tribute  heavy,  ceaseless  out  of  far 
Sevilla  came  King  Pedro's  threats  of  war. 
Yea,    even    Alhambra's    hallowed    walls 

could  hear 

The  taunts  of  some  rash  Christian  cava 
lier; 

And  once  at  twilight,  too,  a  serenade 
Came  wafting  up  for  his  Alhambra  maid. 
It  set  my  heart  a-dream  with  stories  told 
Of  fond  sultanas  who,  in  days  of  old, 
Braved  these  sheer  depths  at  some  true 

knight's  appeal 

And  o'er  the  mountain  passes  gained  Cas 
tile. 

But  I — were  it  for  me  that  gallant's  song — 
Could  I  return  as  poor  Maruja  'mong 
The  village  folk? — Arifa,  I  whose  praise 
Granada's   poets   sing — whose   flower   of 

days 

Is  still  at  bloom?     Could  I  return  and 
know 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

The  people  of  my  race,  and  veil-less  go 
Throughout  their  cities,  learn  to  make  the 

Cross, 

And  count  the  Ave  bells?    If  so,  what  loss 
To  Yussuf  ? — he  whose  feasts  were  spread 

around 

The  Court  of  Myrtles,  he  with  beard  en- 
wound 

With  jewels,  tossing  coins  in  yellow  play 
Into  the  pools  of  goldfish  all  the  day! — 
Then  ay  de  mi!  that  morn  when  at  the 

doors 
They  flung  him  back  amid  their  jeers  and 

roars 

Of  Abu-Said's  guards ! — his  futile  reign 
Annulled,    his   tinsel    sceptre    snapped    in 

twain 
At  that   dread  upstart's   whim!      Alhisn 

anew 

Lit  up  its  lamps ;  the  arrafias  blew 
Their  mellow  pastorals;  santal  and  musk 
Breathed  from  the  perfume  urns.     Yea, 

now  the  husk 
Of  Yussuf's  days  was  ours,  his  painted 

smile 

77 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT" 

And  gruesome  touch — life  seemed  a  task 

too  vile! — 
Yet  with  myself  I  still  kept  faith.     That 

thing 

Misshapen,  imbecile,  the  slaves  did  fling 
To  us  was  Yussuf,  victim  of  a  fate 
Inflexible  as  ours !    That  I  should  hate 
As   once   I  loved,  what  woman  is  there 

born 
Would  blame  me  to  revenge  my  months 

of  scorn? 

And  yet  all  loathsome  derelict  he  was, 
Had  he  not  been  my  prince  of  love,  the 

cause 

Of  all  my  rapture,  all  my  bitterness? 
Though  he  had  wronged  me,  it  was  mine 

to  bless; 
And  I  would  save  him  when  again  they 

broke 

Into  Alhisn. — I  wrapped  me  in  his  cloak 
Again  to  screen  him; — but  he  thrust  me 

by, 

And  cried  exulting — "Askari,  'tis  I, 
Your  monarch  Yussuf !    Lo,  once  more  ye 

come 

78 


ARIFA  "THE  TREE  OF  EIGHT" 

To  throne  me  o'er  Granada !" — Stricken 

dumb 

They  paused  an  instant — then  the  scimitar 
Clove  him  in  twain ! — Thus  rose  the  drip 
ping  star 

Of  Abu-Said! — Nay,  he  gives  no  thought 
To  us,  with  ice  they  say  his  veins  are 

fraught ; 

To  rule  is  his  sole  madness;  but  'tis  said 
King  Pedro's  name  eats  up  his  heart  with 

dread. 
And  as  for  me — what  monarch  comes  or 

goes, — 

My  life  must  be  the  same  within  this  close 
Of  domes  and  gardens.  Still  the  poets  sing 
Arifa's  fate — of  her  whose  broken  wing 
Hath  doomed  her  to  a  cage;  yea,  still  at 

eve 
Across  the  ramparts  come  wild  songs  that 

leave 
My   heart   a-thirsting   for  the   mountain 

streams, 
And  then  I  smile — and  sometimes  weep — 

o'er  dreams. 


79 


MURILLO  PAINTS  "THE  ASSUMP 
TION" 

Scene  in  Seville  in  the  year  166$,  the 
house  of  Don  Bartolome  Murillo  on  the 
Plaza  de  Alfaro;  in  the  sunshiny,  white 
patio,  with  bright  flowers  in  pots,  birds  in 
wicker  cages,  and  a  tall  palm-tree  visible 
over  the  rooftop. 

Murillo,  about  forty-eight  years  old,  is 
standing  at  work  before  his  easel.  His 
model,  Rufina,  about  eighteen  years  old,  is 
posed  on  a  raised  platform,  her  robe  of 
light  blue  and  her  hands  crossed  on  her 
breast.  At  a  rear  corner  of  the  patio  sits 
Dona  Juanela,  an  old  woman  in  a  black 
dress  and  plain  veil,  her  hands  busy  with 
her  large  red  rosary-beads.  Strumming  of 
a  guitar  is  heard  from  the  street  outside 
and  then  singing  in  the  African-Gipsy 
manner,  the  voice  of  ANT6N: 
80 


"THE  ASSUMPTION" 

You  must  never  leave  the  songbird 
Nor  the  woman  quite  alone; 

The  bird,  because  the  cat  is  wary; 
The  woman,  for  the  lover's  tone. 

MURILLO 

You    hear,     Juanela,     what    the     singer 

chants? 
What  are  your  ceaseless  prayers  compared 

with  his? 
This  endless   singing  of  our  streets  and 

squares 

Will  drive  me  mad! — 
JUANELA 

It  is  the  world 
And  spring,  Don  Bartolome.     They  will 

chirp 

Until  the  nests  are  ready — or  the  grave  I 
We  old  souls  have  sung,  and  now  must 

hear 
The  others'  songs — with  patience  of  the 

skies. 
MURILLO 

I  would  I  knew  some  quarter  of  our  land 
Where  I  might  'scape  the  sound!     They 

call  it  Love ! — 

Si 


MURILLO  PAINTS 

Love! — that  whole  day  long,  and  every 

day 
It  sounds  but  more  monotonous.    'Twould 

seem 

The  only  voice  our  Seville  knows  by  heart. 
They  say,  within  the  North,  that  cap  and 

bells 

Become  us  Andalusians  best!     Indeed 
In  other  lands  it  is  the  saddest  hearts 
That  do  the  singing;  we  are  sad,  it  seems, 
Who  make  our  trivial  songs  our  constant 

joys; 
Grief  hides  our  crown  of  thorns  'neath  cap 

and  bells ! — 

JUANELA 

Birds  in  their  cages  sing  in  spite  of  bars; 

Then,  too,  Rufina  is  both  young  and  fair, 

Don  Bartolome — 

MURILLO 

Did  you  say  Rufina — 
This  singing  is  for  her? — 
JUANELA 

'Tis  Anton's  voice. 
MURILLO 

This  twiddle-twaddle  that  has  plunked  all 
spring 

82 


"THE  ASSUMPTION" 

Outside  my  gate ! — Then  surely  you  have 

failed, 

Juanela,  that  it  should  occur! — 
JUANELA 

In  faith 

Maestro,  you  have  set  me  to  a  task 
Too  great;  we  fight  against  the  spring  and 

youth  I 
MURILLO 

Have  I  not  told  you  that  Rufina  must 
Make  visits  to  the  nuns  of  Santa-Cruz; 
Must  take  communion  daily,  and  to  prayer 
Give  all  her  leisure? 
JUANELA 

Even  so,  Senor, 
Love  will  have  speech  as  it  has  eyes  in 

spring. 
And  there  are  lovers  here  who  look  in 

heaven 
To   find   embrace    and   kisses — even   our 

saints, 
And  monks  and  nuns   enamored  of  the 

skies! — 
MURILLO 
Hush,  hush,  Juanela!     Mock  not  at  the 

loves 

83 


MURILLO  PAINTS 

Our  mystics  know!  But  surely  you  must 

see 

It  is  important  to  my  plan  for  her 
That  she  accord  in  life  of  perfectness 
With    our    Immaculate    Mother's.      Ten 

times  now 
My  brush  has  striven  to  show  our  Virgin 

Queen 
Of   Heaven   among  the   clouds   on   high 

transformed, 

Sinless  and  perfect  in  her  earthly  grace ! — 
No  thought  of  earthly  love  must  ever  come 
Across  my  model's  mind  to  mar  the  dream 
My  soul  would  build  upon  her  I  Through 

my  griefs 

And  prayers  my  art  has  come  into  this  sun 
Of  joy  celestial.  At  the  Brotherhood 
Of  our  Don   Miguel  have   I   learnt  the 

glooms 

Of  penance  and  the  tragedies  of  Faith; 
My  shadows  are  the  bone-black  from  the 

pots 

Our  Andalusians  burn.    Besides  I  read 
My  Pictor  Christianus  and  the  Vana 
Commensuracion  and  Valverde's  guide. 


'THE  ASSUMPTION" 

You  see,  I  do  not  scorn  Pacheco's  law; — 
"Our  Lady  must  be  painted  in  the  flower 
Of  twelve  or  thirteen  years;  with  sweet, 

grave  eyes, 
And  nose  and  mouth  of  perfect  form;  and 

hair 
A   flow   of  finest  gold." — Then,   too,   he 

says : — 
"Clothe  her  in  blue  and  white;  the  cycle 

moon 
Beneath     her     like     a     reaping     hook." 

Sometimes, 

Indeed,  have  I  neglected  to  include 
The  crown  of   stars  and  the   Franciscan 

cord 

That  Sister  Beatrix  de  Silva  saw 
In  her  great  vision, — for,  methinks,  the 

sons 

Of  the  Assisian  lay  too  grasping  hands 
Upon  the  gates  of  heaven.     Here  then 

you  have 

The  Dogma  and  the  poem  of  our  true 
Redemption, — beautifully  seen  and  told ! 
There's  none,  they  say,  has  rivalled  me  in 

this. 

85 


MURILLO  PAINTS 

JUANELA 

Don  Bartolome's  work,  they  say,  is  both 

Divine  in  art  and  in  the  ways  of  Faith. 

MURILLO 

You  know,  Juanela,  how  I've  striven  here 

For    perfect    lightness    of    the    floating 

form, — 

For  lift  of  draperies, — for  angelic  hues — 
Have   I   not  turned  these   cherub   forms 

around 

A  thousand  times  to  catch  an  airy  rise 
And  ecstasy?     Long  have  I  striven,  and 

yet 

Until  today  the  vision  has  been  far 
Beyond  my  brush's  reach! — Then — then, 
This  music  from  the  street, — this  talk  of 

love 

For  my  Rufina ! — 
JUANELA 

Senor,  you  must  see 

The  girl  is  growing  up;  she  cannot  stand 
Forever  on  this  pedestal  of  yours  1 
MURILLO 
Let  her  have  patience :     I  will  pay  her 

dower 

To  join  the  nuns  of  Santa-Cruz. 
86 


"THE  ASSUMPTION" 

JUANELA 

Don  Bartolome,  no;  I  find  she  dreams 

In  spite  of  all  your  plans  of  other  love. 

MURILLO 

So,  it  has  come, — reality  declares 

My  work  must  finish  and  today.     And  so 

My  last  "Assumption"  now  is  fully  done! 

Here  do  I  leave  my  gospel  word,  so  Time 

Shall  not  forget  the  dreams  our  century 

Has  woven  in  Faith !  Mine,  too,  will  be  a 

note 

Of  joy,  such  as  old  Urban  Seventh  spoke 
Admonishing,  "Faith  to  sing,  and  Hope  to 

dance, 
And  Charity  to  leap  with  Joy!"     Quick, 

there, 

Rufina,  take  the  pose ! — I'll  finish  now ! — 
Smile,    dream    of    heaven,    of   purity,    of 

light!— 
Now,  dear  Fray  Luis,  let  me  sing  with 

you — 

"O  turn  thine  eyes,  O  Tender, 
O  Loving! — ere  dost  leave 
This  vale  whose  flowery  splendor 
Masks  but  a  waste  where  grieve 
The  outcast  sons  of  Eve! 

8? 


MURILLO  PAINTS 

"And  when  thy  gentle  vision 

Hath   marked  their  dismal  plight, 
Thou, — on  thy  way  elysian* — 

Mayst  trail  them  in  thy  flight, 
Heaven's  Lode-Star,    to   the  Light!" 
(Murillo  falls  on  his  knees  and  is  lost  in 
an  ecstasy  before  his  painting.) 
JUANELA   (to  RUFINA) 
Take   off  the  blue   cloak!     Hurry,   little 

one, 

Anton  will  be  impatient  at  the  gate. 
Quick,  let's  be  off ! — Hark,  there  he  sings 

again! — 

ANTON    (Singing  outside  the  house.) 
"Thou  art  like  the  driven  snow, 

And  I,  the  dread  volcano's  blast; 
Shall  thy  whiteness  melting  flow, 

Or  my  fire  be  quenched  at  last?" 


88 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

To  MOTHER  GOOSE 

AH,    rare    old    nurse    of   poets,    now    so 

scorned 

By  hasty  bards  and  followers  of  isms 
Who    leave    thy    breast    for    metrical 

abysms, 

And  grewsome   moods  and  passions  un 
adorned, — 
Would  that  these  twanging  lyrists  might 

be  warned 
Back  to  thy  lessons  from  their  naughty 

schisms,' 

And  set  to  con  the  rhythmic  catechisms 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  wisdom  earth  has 
mourned! 

Would — first  of  women  in  the  ranks  of 

song! — 

Mother  of  mystic  and  of  symbolist! — • 
Thou  couldst  return  to  these,  and  bring 

along 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

Thy    pap    and    gruel    now    so    sorely 

missed, — 
Thy    saving    humor     (should    it    still 

exist ! ) , 

Thy  breath  of  youthlands,  and  thine  elfin 
throng ! 


HUMPTY   DUMPTY 

Clown-monarch  of  the  nursery,  thy  name 
Too  long  is  silent  on  the  sonnet's  tongue, 
The  while  our  bards  sophisticate  have 
sung 

Thy  cousin  Pierrot  and  his  deeds  to  fame ! 

Is't  air  of  carnival  thou  lackst? — a  dame, 
Like  Columbine,  to  interest  the  young 
With  that  "lovefinterest"  that  is  set 

among 

The   chief   requirements   of  the   author's 
game? 

Kings  prove,  they  say,  their  greatness  in 

their  fall, 

So  thou,  mad  bumpkin  from  the  moon, 
hast  shown 

90 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

Thy  merriment  to  childish  eyes  alone 
That  hail  thy  tumble  as  a  royal  flight, — 
Little  barbarians,  with  no  thought  at  all 
To  sympathize,  or  keep  a  face  polite ! 


LITTLE  Miss  MOFFET 

Her  opera  chaperon  was  heard  to  say, — 
"Miss  Moffet's  nerves,  you  know,  were 

quite  unstrung 
Because  a  spider — when  she  was  quite 

young — 
Sat  down  to  join  her  at  her  curds  and 

whey. 

The  specialists  declared  to  our  dismay 
Her  life  itself  upon  the  balance  hung; 
Since  even  the  shock,  they  said,  of  being 

stung 
Could  hardly  worse  upon  her  system  play." 

And  as  the  music  died  away,  there  came 
Into  the  box  a  monster  with  a  name 
Renowned  of  old — but  now  for  debts 

known  wider — 
Miss  Moffett's  little  face  looked  pleased 

and  vain, 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

We  saw  that  they  had  cured  her  nervous 

strain, 

As  Prince  Tarantula  sat  down  beside 
her. 


THE  SPRATS 

Oh,  happiest  of  mortals,  in  an  age 
Of  legal  separation  and  divorce ! — 
How    many    hear    your    story    in    re 
morse  ! — 
Would  Jack  were  patron-saint  of  husbands 

sage; 
That  thou,  madame,  could  wifely  thoughts 

engage, 
Till  maids  and  bachelors  should  have 

recourse 

As  pilgrims  to  your  platter,  as  a  source 
Of  grace  that  would  their  marriage  qualms 
assuage  I 

Thus  Time  would  canonize  your  names 

benign, 
Bards   name   you   in   the    Daphnis-Chloe 

line, 

And  realists  proclaim  you  glorious ! 
92 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

Stoic  and  cynic,  too,  would  stand  aside 
In  awe  before  the  maxim  you  provide, — 
"Non  disputandum  est  de  gustibus." 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

"To  bed,"  says  Sleepy-Head  the  sybarite; 

"Let's  stay  awhile,"  says  fatalistic  Slow; 

"Put  on  the  pot,  we'll  sup  before  we 

Says  Greedy-Sot,  Falstaffian  polite. 

And  on  the  bed  the  first  enjoys  the  night; 
The  second  tarries  in  the  chimney-glow, 
The  glutton  fills  the  pot  to  overflow, 

And  eats  until  his  jaws  refuse  to  bite. 

But  see,  between  the  crannies  of  the  door, 

The  sunrise  glinting  on  the  tavern  floor, 

Ere    from    the    hills,    the    cocks    have 

ceased  to  crow! 
Hark!    Hark! — the  knocker  beats  a  loud 

tatto, — 
"Who's     there     without?"— "Death  !"— 

"Death,  and  who  are  you?" 
"Unbar  the  door  and  each  of  you  shall 
know!" 

93 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

BLACK  SHEEP 

Bah,  bah,  old  critics,  have  you  any  wool 
To  spare  a  little  poet  down  the  lane? 
They  say  he's  crying — poets  will  com 
plain  ! — 
Because  he  hears  that  you  have  three  bags 

full. 
One    for  your   master — old   book-selling 

bull!— 
One    for   your    dame.      (For   rhyme's 

sake,  call  her  vain!) 
They  say  that  all  the  other  can  contain 
You  need  into  the  Public's  eyes  to  pull. 

Why  should  you  bother  with  the  puling 

boy? — 
One  little  bah  can   drown  his  pipings 

quite ! 

Nay,  but  your  master,  if  you  should  annoy, 
Can  sheer  a  black  fleece  off   as  well   as 

white. 

So  when  you  would  your  smallest  bah  em 
ploy, 

Make  sure  he  finds  it  modulated  right 
94 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

To  BANBURY  CROSS 

"A  horse,   a   horse,   my  kingdom   for   a 

horse!" 
And  off,  where  Banbury's  young  woman 

springs 

With  tinkling  hosiery  and  finger  rings 
Upon   her   snow-white   hobby   round   the 

course ! 

Fling  Shakespeare  down,  and  as  for  prob 
lems  Norse, 
To  grandma  leave  the  Ibsen-Bjornson 

things ! — 

A  pair  of  ankles  is  as  good  as  wings 
Dramatic  or  poetic  tours  de  force. 

There  shall  be  music,  too,  where'er  she 

goes, 
Not  such  as  Wagner's  endless   scores 

beget, 

But  warbling  of  the  strings  and  piccolos 
In  rhythms  that  gladden  ballet  and  sou- 

brette — 
Till  worries,  duties,  arts,  and  such,  are 

set 

As  naught  beside  the  magic  beat  of  toes. 
95 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

BO-PEEP 

Vergil,  Theocritus  and  Tasso,  each 

Had  glimpse  of  you;  canson  and  pas- 

torelle 
In  rarer  times  essayed  your  charm  to 

tell; 
Watteau   and   Fragonard  took  brush  to 

teach 
Their  age  what  light  Voiture  empearled  in 

speech; 

Till  in  the  Trianon's  embowered  cell, 
Enraptured    of    your    grace,    a    Queen 

would  dwell 
From  royal  state  afar,  and  sorrow's  reach. 


Now  our  old  world  is  weary  of  its  arts, 
And  wig  and  furbelow  are  put  away, 
Mankind  delights  but  in  the  simpler  parts 
And  winsome  touches  of  a  newer  day; 
And  so,  Bo-Peep,  from  Saxe  and  Sevres, 

we  stray 

To  nursery  paths  where  first  you  won  our 
hearts. 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

MADAM  O'SHOE 

To  none  of  our  best  sections  a  la  mode 
Her  family  gave  umbrage  by  its  size; 
In  fact,  wise  genealogists  surmise 
'Twas  some  old  shoe  that  served  them  for 

abode. 
Of  course  this  happened  ere  the  Building 

Code 

And  the  wondering  world  saw  "Moth 
ers'  Clubs"  arise, 

For  specialists  of  microscopic  eyes 
Pooh-pooh  the  form  of  treatment  she  be 
stowed. 

How  artless !  truly,  how  unsterilized ! — 
The  way  she  fed  and  sent  them  whipt  to 

bed! 
(The    very    thought    gives    pedagogic 

shocks !) 
And  yet  her  boys  for  brain  and  brawn 

were  prized, 

Her  girls  such  beauties  they  were  quick 
ly  wed, 

And  now  are  numbered  with  our  best  of 
stocks. 

97 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

ONE  CONTRARY 

Mary,  Mary,  why  these  cockle  shells, 
And  pretty  maidens  standing  in  a  row? 
For  once  your  Monna  Lisa  smile  forego 
And  soberly  explain  these  silver  bells. 
We've  borne  your  purple  cabbage,  aspho 
dels, 
Madonnas,  nudes,  and  Breton  peasants, 

so 

For  pity's  sake,  be  simple,  let  us  know 
If  dear  Kate  Greenaway  in  your  memory 
dwells? 


Pray  why,  amid  your  raptures  on  Chavan- 

nes, 
Rodin     and     Beardsley,     Manet     and 

Burne-Jones, 
Should  she  be  quite  unmentioned  in  your 

tones  ? 
You  pause? — and  sadly  our  poor  faces 

scan  ? 

Then  in  your  Botticelli  robes  sweep  by, 
Fixing  a  "Holy  Grail"  in  either  eye. 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

BOY  BLUE. 

Your  little  horn  was  heard  by  Tennyson, 
And  Romney  sketched  you  as  you  lay 

asleep; 
While   in  a   fashion   dating   from   Bo- 

Peep, 
Your  flocks  untended  through  the  pastures 

run. 
How  soon,  O  nursery  Endymion, 

Across  your  haymow  did  the  shadows 

creep ! 
How  soon  the  hours  like  wayward  cows 

and  sheep, 

Stole  from  your  side  until  your  youth  was 
done! 


Did  then  some  godlike  rapture  wing  you 

high 
To  far  emprise?    Or  did  some  maiden's 

kiss 

Lead  you  on  duty's  pathways  unto  bliss? 
Or  from  that  hour  did  childhood's  bloom 
decay 

99 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

From  out  your  heart — the  vision,   from 

your  eye — 

Save  in  some  mother's  memory — pass 
away? 


ON  THE  TREE-TOP 

Rockaby,  Baby, — mother  must  be  gone, 
For  club-elections  will  begin  at  eight; 
Tonight  the  incubator-stove  can  wait, 
I've  hardly  time  to  get  my  bonnet  on. 
When  the  wind  blows  our  sky-scrape  flat 

upon 
'Twill  rock  your  cradle,  and  should  I  be 

late, 

Ring  up  the  elevator,  dear,  and  state 
What  time  you'll  have  your  breakfast-food 
to  John. 

Rockaby,  Baby,  when  we  meet  again, 
Who  knows,  but  I  shall  be  the  Right- 
Supreme — 
Grand-President   of   Mothers — I   can't 

lose ! — 

Ah,    darling,   won't   we   both   be   happy 
then?— 

100 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

With  editors  to  serve  you  with  your 

cream, 
And  watch  your  cradle,  while  I  write 

my  "views"  I 


MOTHER  HUBBARD 

Good  Hubbard,  who  can  tell  thy  poodle's 

plight 

Save  Humperdinck  in  mimic  roundelay? 
Who  paint  thy  cupboard  but  Teniers? 

— Portray 
Thy  homely  features  but  Franz  Halz  by 

right? 

As  for  the  bone — delicious  oversight 
Of  scribe  and  painter ! — shall  the  annals 

say 
Twas  stolen  by  the  thieves  or  elves 

away, 
Or  by  the  canine  pharisee  at  night? 

Yet  food  is  here  for  thinking!     We  who 

wait 

Impatient  for  some  cupboard  to  unclose, 
Mayhap    already   have   licked    clean   the 
plate 

101 


MOTHER  GOOSE  SONNETS 

Of  life  and  idly  dream  upon  the  bone, 
Until  Dame  Fortune,  like  old  Hubbard, 

throws 

Her  coffers  wide,  to  show  our  treasure 
flown! 


102 


IN  THE  CAFE  EUROPA 

A  SUDDEN   shower  and   all   of  us   were 
trapped 

In  the  cafe;  they  slammed  the  doors  to 
shut 

The  rain  out ;  and  the  great  throng 

Went  on  eating  its  breakfast  or  its  lunch, 

For  it  was  eleven  in  the  morning 

And  the  lazy  ones  met  the  early  ones 

At  different  ends  of  their  day's  work. 

The  wild  chatter  of  voices 

Went  on  unhushed  by  the  rainfall;  Spani 
ard, 

Blackman  and  Indian,  all  with  the  grim 
aces 

Of  Central  and  lower  Europe; 

Distinguished  official  senores,  gallant  sol 
diers  in  khaki, 

Putting  five  tablespoons  of  sugar  in  a  demi- 
tasse; 

103 


IN  THE  CAFE  EUROPA 

Muscular  Galicians  with  small  heads  and 

fleshy  shoulders; 
Beautiful  eyes  out  of  Africa  as  well  as 

Spain; 

Golden  skins  of  the  Conquistadores  burnt 
By  tropic  suns  and  tropic  bloods  to  the 

shades 

Of  creamy  browns  and  dusky  reds. 
And  the  voices  chatter  in  the  raucous  burr 
Of  Spain,  with  oversinging  of  Indian  tones 
And  melting  falls  learned  in  the  jungles 
From  the  escaped  slaves  of  old. 
Here  the  fine  logic  of  the  renaissance, 
The  spirit  of  the  Fray  Luises  and  Queve- 

dos 

Is  used  to  discuss  the  world-war, 
The  reports  of  the  railroad  commissions 
Or  the  new  steps  of  Maruxa, 
The  beauty  from  the  alleyways  of  Cama- 

guey. 

Soon  again  the  rain  is  over, 
And  a  sun  from  the  golden  book  of  Sevilla 
Breaks  through  the  clouds,  lighting  anew 
Its  candle  of  memories  of  the  past, — 
Of  a  Sevilla  without  a  Cathedral, 
A  Sevilla  without  an  Alcazar, — 
104 


IN  THE  CAFE  EUROPA 

A  Habana  with  her  blue  sea  like  a  Vega 

around  her, 

Her  golden-shaded  people, 
Her  American  heart  and  Latin  genius, 
Her  love  of  liberty  and  native  land, 
Her  tourists  in  their  new  Panama  hats, 
Her  tolerance,  her  anti-Clericals 
With  blessed  medals  pinned  to  their  un 
dershirts, 

Her  adorable  sinners  I — 
There  they  throng  out  again 
Into  the  sun  and  the  narrow  streets, 
Dodging  automobiles  and  trolley-cars, 
Glad  in  the  sunshine,  glad  in  the  life 
And  stimulation  of  her  wines  and  coffee, 
Of  her  theaters,  her  hai-alai  and  opera- 
houses, 

Her  Prado  and  Malacon  and  race-track, — * 
Glad  in  the  ghost-light  of  her  liberty, 
For  which  her  dusky  revolutionists 
Fought   and   died,   starved   and   suffered 

prison, 

For  which  her  poets  sighed  and  sang, 
Her  mothers  wept  and  prayed, — 
Glad  in  the  impending  compromise 
That  will  make  of  Cuba 
105 


IN  THE  CAFE  EUROPA 

A  crowned  land  of  pleasure, 
An  arc-light  amid  the  Antilles, 
The  center  of  our  continental  literature, 
The  capital  of  Pan- America ! 

La  Habana,  Cuba.     1919. 


106 


THE  SAVING  VIRTUES 

IT'S  this  way,  sir; — 
You  see  how  her 

And  me  ain't  had  a  bite,  sir; — 
I'm  sure  you  can, — 
Kind  gentleman, — 

Oblige  us  with  a  mite,  sir? 
A  sixpence ! — Thanks, 
Kind  friend.    There's  cranks 

Insult  the  likes  of  me,  sir, 
When  I  shows  them  Mag, 
And  starts  to  brag 

About  her  pedigree,   sir. 
But  a  gentleman  knows 
How  fashions  goes 

With  a  fine  hard-workin'  lass,  sir,- 
A  trifle  heady — 
A  bit  unsteady — 

But  the  virtues  of  her  class,  sir. 
There's  them  who  say 
Hard  things  today 

107 


THE  SAVING  VIRTUES 

About  old  Mag,— I'll  own,  sir; 
It's  false  report — 
She's  a  decent  sort — 

She  never  drinks  alone,  sir. 


108 


THE  WIDOWY  DRONE 

THE  Widow  Malone 
Of  the  Town  of  Athlone, 
Since  her  Owen  was  thrown 
From  his  Donnybrook  roan 
On  his  cerebral  bone — 
(Bad  cess  to  the  stone !)  — 
Not  a  sigh  was  she  known 
To  let  out,  nor  a  groan 
(Not  even  "ochone!" 
Did  the  creature  entone!). 
But  when  Shamus  McKeown 
From  the  Neo-Celt  zone 
Of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 
Came  to  ogle  and  drone 
O'er  her  teacup  and  scone, 
She'ld  say  "Whist  ye,  my  own, 
I'm  a  poor  decent  crone, — 
Play  no  'Darby  and  Joan' 
With  the  Widow  Malone." 

109 


AN  AUTUMN  SONG 

THE  days  of  June  and  budding  youth  are 

over — 

This  is  the  season  of  our  middle-age; 
We've   had  our  share   of   roses   and   of 

clover, 
And  Autumn's   embonpoint  is   all   our 

wage; 

Still  let  the  glass  be  filled,  for  old  October 
Shall  hear  our  praises  down  his  echoes 

wing; 

Youth  is  intoxicate  and  we  are  sober — 
Any  old  bird  can  sing  in  spring. 

Our  nests  are  empty  and  the   waists  so 

slender 

We've  hugged  as  lads  are  now  substan 
tial  grown; 

Our  visionings  to  grayish  fact  surrender; 
Life  has  assumed  a  smooth  monotonous 
tone. 

no 


AN  AUTUMN  SONG 

But  Art  is  long — the  idle  little  poet 

Outlasts  the  coin  that  at  his  head  they 

fling; 
Time's   short — our   fellow  minstrel  boys 

now  show  it — 
Any  old  bird  can  sing  in  spring. 

Of  Phyllis  and  her  tombstone  quite  suf- 

ficent 
Our  youthtime  sang;  of  dreadful  sins 

and  crime 

Our  babbling  lips  have  raised  a  note  om 
niscient 
And  Death  has  gibed  us  with  a  calmer 

time; 
Surely  the  subtler  moods  have  bowed  and 

left  us 

To  snoring  slumber  and  cool  visioning; 
Yet  of  the  song  think  not  they  have  bereft 

us — 
Any  old  bird  can  sing  in  spring. 

So  fare  ye  well,  ye  imagings  pubescent, 

Ye  "virile"  idols  and  symbolic  ills! 
Our  youngsters  hereabouts  are  not  quies 
cent 

in 


AN  AUTUMN  SONG 

But  pipe  your  chants  and  add  a  thousand 

trills. 

For  us  the  organ  note  of  fate  sonorous, — 
The    mild    beatitudes    that    age    shall 

bring; 
Let's  draw  the  nighttime  blanket  snugly 

o'er  us — 
Any  old  bird  can  sing  in  spring. 


112 


THE  SEA-WOMAN 

PALE  his  cheek — his  step  is  slow, 
The  fisher-lad  of  David's  Cave; 

Only  the  waves  his  strong  arm  know 
Where  his  oars  the  black  tides  brave. 

Silent  he  goes  and  his  eye  is  sad; 

He  comes  no  more  to  the  crossroad's 

dance ; 
No  maid  on  the  coast  his  troth  has  had, 

No  maid  on  the  hills  his  glance. 

But  at  noon  when  the  sea  is  smooth  and 

still 

He  turns  his  boat  to  the  cavern's  shade, 
Where   chained   and  waiting  his   savage 

will 
A  white  sea-woman  is  laid. 

Caught  in  the  rocks  she  has  screamed  and 

torn 

Her  wonderful  hair  and  her  eyes  are 
red 


THE  SEA-WOMAN 

From  the  tears  and  the  shame  her  body 

has  borne, 
And  the  pride  of  her  heart  is  dead. 

"O  Tegid,  Tegid,"  she  chants  him  there, 
"Lad  of  the  burning  mouth  and  eyes, 

Of  the  splendid  shoulders  and  ruddy  hair, 
Let  me  answer  my  people's  cries — 

"Let  me  free  of  the  gloom  of  David's 

Cave, 
Let  me  out  again  in  the  fields  of  the 

deep; 

They  mourn  for  me  upon  every  wave — 
They  watch  and  wait  without  sleep!" 

And  the  fisher-lad  her  chains  released 
And  pointed  forth  to  the  open  sea; 

"Begone,"  he  said,  "my  love  hath  ceased; 
You  are  no  kin  to  me!" 

And  now  she  follows  his  boat  afar, 

And  winds  herself  in  his  nets  by  night; 

His  thoughts  are  of  one  on  the  harbor  bar 
And  the  joys  of  the  homing  light. 
114 


THE  SEA-WOMAN 

But  she  is  pale  with  the  dashing  foam, 
And  her  voice  is  faint  and  hoarse  and 
strange ; 

She  pines  in  vain  and  returns  not  home 
Where  the  white  sea-women  range. 


THE  BROWN-STONE  ROW 

IT  stretches  down  my  memory 
Like  a  long  brown  valley 
High  and  narrow — 

The  old  street  with  brown-stone  houses 
Where  our  boyhood's  days  were  passed. 
There  were  trees  and  grassplots — 
For  the  old  street  was  in  Brooklyn — 
But  they  do  not  make  the  memory  more 

lifelike- 
It  seemed  as  though  we  were  in  some 

museum 

Of  Egyptian  relics,  and  the  high  walls 
Of  papier-mache   were   shutting   out  the 

actualities 

And  leaving  us  to  a  sort  of  existence 
In  an  artificial  atmosphere. 
I  remember,  too,  the  strangely  assorted 

people 

Who  lived  on  our  street; 
There  was  the  old  maid's  house 
Where  a  baseball  was  in  danger 
116 


THE  BROWN-STONE  ROW 

Of  being  seized  if  it  should  fall  that  way; 

There  was  the  house,  half-furnished, 

Of  the  Army  officer  whose  daughter 

Was  singing  in  light-opera,  who  had 

Wonderful  books  and  fine  furniture,  but  no 
shades 

To   screen  the  windows;  there  was   the 
family 

From  South  America  with  the  growing  boy 

Who  used  to  regale  us  with  scandalous 
tales 

About  all  the  young  girls  in  our  neighbor 
hood  ; 

There  was  the   Jewish   family,    fat   and 
well-fed, 

Who  gave  splendid  concerts  in  summer 
time 

When  the  windows  were  open; 

There  was  also  the  negro  servant-boy  who 
sang 

In  a  splendid  falsetto  voice ;  and  the  young 
girl, 

Delicate  and  pale,  who  drove  out  with  her 
Shetland  pony; 

And  the  Scotchman,  dignified  and  minis 
terial, 

117 


THE  BROWN-STONE  ROW 

Who  used  to  come  home  staggering  at 

times; 

And  the  well-to-do  clerk  who  remarried 
After  years  of  widowhood  and  had  new 

babies,  much  to  the  disgust 
Of  his  son  who  rode  so  rapidly  on  two 

wheels 
Of  his  velocipede  that  we  thought  him  an 

inspired  creature; 
There  was  the   old  eccentric,  whom  we 

afterward  found  out  to  be 
A  famous  comic  poet  of  wartimes, 
Who  would  never  pass  by  a  piece  of  paper 

on  the  street 
Without  picking  it  up ; 
And  the  rich  milkman's  lovely  daughters 
Who  leaned  all  day  out  of  the  windows 
Chattering  to  the  neighborhood  boys; — 
What  became  of  them  all,  I  wonder,  the 

boys  and  the  girls? — 
The  old  people  are  dead,  certainly — 
But  how  much  did  our  old  brown-stone 

row 

Contribute  to  life  at  large?     Who  sur 
vived  it? 


CATULLUS  ANENT  HIS   LESBIA 

THERE'S  Lesbia,  vowing  she  would  rather 
Be  mine,  than  that  Almighty  Father 

Jove  besought  her! — 
Swearing  it, — yet,  sublime  deceiver, 
She  hardly  hopes  we  shall  believe  her; 

Since  girls  who  plight  such  pledges  write 
On  air  and  water. 


119 


GUITAR  SONG 

To  the  lyre  my  fingers  throw 

Songs  I  would  the  world  should  know. 

Though  my  songs  from  lip  to  lip 
Float  like  butterflies  that  sip 
Sweetness  down  a  vale  of  roses, 
Think  not  that  my  heart  reposes; 
Nay,  it  is  my  heart's  own  beating 
The  guitar  doth  keep  repeating. 
But  the  singer's  breast  will  beat 
With  a  throb  no  songs  repeat, 
So  while  love  the  lyre  is  telling, 
The  guitar  remains  his  dwelling. 

To  the  lyre  my  fingers  throw 

Songs  I  would  the  world  should  know. 


I2O 


TO  JOYCE  KILMER— JULY  30,  1918 

Buried  at  the  Wood  of  the  Burned  Bridge, 
near  Serin ges  on  the  Ourcq 

THE    moon    tonight    looks    on    another 

mound, — 

Merely  another  of  the  heaps  of  clod 
And  stones  that  stretch  behind  the  battle 
ground, — 
Another  shadow  and  a  cross  of  God. 

Afar,  around,  the  giant  guns  are  heard 
Booming  their  challenge  to  the  shrink 
ing  foe; 
And    underground    the    bodies    still    are 

stirred 

With  tremors  that  the  dead  alone  can 
know. 

For  the  great  fight  goes  on,  not  yet  all 

won, 

For  all  the  valor  folded  into  rest; 
121 


TO  JOYCE  KILMER— JULY  30,  1918 

Blood  on  the  morn,  blood  on  the  setting 

sun 
Signals  the  rallying  forces  to  their  quest. 

And  he  and  they,  untimely  hurried  down 
That  jostling  thoroughfare  of  Death's 

domain, 
Live   in  the    shout,    strike    in   the   melee 

brown, 

And  spread  defiance  from  their  ghostly 
reign. 

Their  hearts  are  hot,  no  coldness  yet  hath 

seized 
Their  limbs  though  shattered  and  reject 

they  lie; 
Their  prayers,  their  dreams  still  live,  as 

though  it  pleased 
Death  that  the  fighter  not  entirely  die. 

And  you,  O  friend,  O  brother  of  gay  years, 
There  in  the  moonlight  stretching  calm 

and  wise, — - 

Lo,  the  lament  for  you! — our  idle  tears 
Heavy  with  pride  and  grief  within  our 
eyes! 

122 


TO  JOYCE  KILMER— JULY  30,  1918 

You  who  put  off  the  world  and  its  allure, 
Its  pomp   and  pose,  to  be  an  honest 

man; 
You  who  were  ten  times  strong,  whose 

heart  was  pure, 
A  Christian  hero,  poet,  artisan! 

There  was  a  Michael  in  you  who  could 

slay 

The  demon  errors  of  nefarious  schools; 
There  was  a  Martin  who  could  give  away 
Half  of  his  cloak  despite  the  jeer  of 
fools. 

There  was  a  Joan  with  mystic  eyes  ablaze 
To  seize  the  Cross-hilt  sword  and  lead 

the  fight; 
Dreams   of  the   saints  and  angels  made 

your  days 

And  all  the  world  around  you  full  of 
light. 

Child  of  the  stoled  princes  of  the  past, 
Brother  of  all  the  lowly  in  the  soil, 
123 


TO  JOYCE  KILMER— JULY  30,  1918 

Among  the  Fishers  were  your  deep  nets 

cast, 

With  the  Assisian  was  your  song  of 
toil. 

And  from  your  heart  with  its   seraphic 

flame 
Sounded    a    paean   of   the    streets    and 

squares ; 

A  chant  of  glory  from  obeisance  came, 
Making    the    trench    into    a    heavenly 
stairs. 

Long,  long,  shall  we  remember  you,  the 

pride 
And     unattended     blessing     of     our 

throng — 

"An  angel  unaware"  was  at  our  side, 
And  we  half-knowing  gladdened  at  your 
song. 

Listening  half-attentive  as  we  heard 
Music  whose  saintly  purport  scarce  we 

caught, 

As  of  the  note  that  some  enraptured  birci 
Amid  the   storm-swept  forests  useless 
brought. 

124 


TO  JOYCE  KILMER— JULY  30,  1918 

But  now,  with  all  your  promise  and  your 

youth 

Swept  from  us  to  that  heavenly  citadel 
Where  reign  the  Light,  the  Love,  the  Joy, 

the  Truth 

Of    which   your   heart   intuitive    could 
spell. — 

We  shall  proclaim  you  man  and  citizen, 
Perfect  and  consecrate  and  catholic; 

The  voice  to   sing  the   song  of  man  to 

men, — 
Poet  of  God's  designed  world  politic. 

We  shall  proclaim  you  model  of  our  day 
For  weakling  Christian  and  renunciant 

heart; 

Our  tears — our  idle  tears — we  brush  away, 
And  from  your  strength,  new  strength 
and  courage  start. 


125; 


THE  SIGH  FOR  DEIRDRE 

As  the  proud  bards  mused  in  their  manes 

of  snow 
A  trembling  stole  over  the  harp's  gold 

frame, 
When  the  north-wind  blew  through  their 

ponderings 

The  gust  on  the  strings  that  told  her 
name. 

On  their  couches  high  lay  monarch,  chief, 
And  scribe  in  grief  and  pined  away 

In  ancient  sigh,  and  because  of  her 

Fell  from  the  stir  and  the  light  of  day. 

And  now,  when  the  rain  of  the  night  has 

ceased 

On  the  dripping  eaves  and  the  glow 
worms  streak 
The  meadows  with  stains  as  of  burning 

tears, — 

What  peasant  but  peers  for  her  fairy 
cheek? — 

126 


THE  SIGH  FOR  DEIRDRE 

For  them  who  fare  o'er  the  lochs  alone, 
Or  watch  and  moan  by  the  holy  wells, 

Wan  fingers  prepare  in  the  crystal  deeps 
What  the  bosom  keeps  and  no  lips  tells. 

Out  by  the  stars,  like  a  lost  soul  dis 
traught, 

At  the  thought  of  her  eyes,  I  am  seized 
with  a  song 

Human  utterance  mars;  all  the  chords  of 
my  soul 

Trembling  mad  with  the  roll  that  far  ages 
prolpng. 

By  the  curve  of  her  mouth,  by  her  shoul 
ders  soft  white 
I  am  slain  with  delight;  yea,  she  haunts 

each  lone  place 
From  the   north  to   the   south,   like   the 

dream  of  a  child, 

And  the  dawn  and  the  wild-roses  strive 
for  her  face. 


127 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  HEAVEN 

THE  mothers  of  heaven  in  starry  throng 
ing  came 

Unto  the  Throne  Most  High,  complaining 

That  'mid  their  bliss   and  rapturous  ac 
claim 

Their    hearts    found    only    loneliness    in 
reigning: — 

"Lord,  we  are  but  poor  foolish  mothers 
after  all 

Thy  welcome  and  Thy  coronal " 

Then  forth  The  Voice  o'er  heaven: 

"O  Gabriel  of  Archangels,  dost  not  know 

That  these  are  mothers?  — Go, 

Ransack  the  worlds  and  skies 

Until  to  each  be  given 

Her  deathless  prize  1" 

And  Gabriel  hurled 

Himself  from  off  the  infinite  crest 

Where  night  swept  round  the  world; 

Until,  fulfilled  at  last 
128 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  HEAVEN 

The  Will  Omnipotent,  unto  the  gate 

Of  Paradise  the  mothers  passed 

In  pageantry  most  rare, 

And  claimed  victorious  there 

The  maimed,  and  weak,  and  reprobate, 

The  failure,  grief,  and  sin, 

The  children  of  their  breast, 

And  bore  their  broken  toys  of  life  as 
trophies  in 

Along  the  mornlit  Forum  of  the  Blest. 

The  empyrean  hushed, — far  wonderment 

On  radiant  saint  and  angel  fell 

As  the  Hosannas  ceased,  and  they  behold 
ing  bent 

And  hearkened  from  the  midnight's 
gloomy  well 

The  world's  faint  laughter  mocking  at  the 
Throne 

Where  on  unshaken  firmament 

God  mused  alone. 


129 


AD  LIMINA 

SHE  lingered  near  the  gates  of  heaven 
Although  the  Angels  waved  her  on 

Unto  the  Throne  where  bent  the  Seven 
At  their  eternal  antiphon. 

She  saw  the  happy  mortals  enter 

To  Bliss  at  last  and  fold  their  wings; 

From  out  the  pure  Elysian  center 
She  heard  their  joyous  gloryings. 

But  one  came  not,  though  still  she  waited 
And  held  her  heaven  from  her  breast, 

Seeking  the  moment  when  'twas  fated 
His  spirit  too  might  come  to  rest. 

The  Great  Archangel  down  came  flying; — 
"Why  gaze  you  still  toward  earth  so 

dim?"— 

She  turned  her  gentle  eyes,  replying, — 
"I  must  be  first  to  welcome  him." 
130 


NIGHTINGALE  TO  THE  LARK 

O  STAY,  joyous  bird,  ere  thou  wingest 

The  dawn  to  surprise, 
And  weave  with  the  carol  thou  singest 

The  music  that  sighs; 
Then  swift  as  the  darkness  is  over 
Away  with  the  song  from  the  clover, 

And  capture  the  skies ! 


ALGONKIN  SPRING 

IT  was  the  gentle  Southwind  stole  the  first 
Around  the  Winter's  lodge  of  snows;  the 

elves 

Of  sunlight  then  athwart  its  glooms  re 
vived 
Pale  Nipon's  breast,  and  from  her  trance 

she  sighed, — 
"Who   calls  me   from   Kiwakwa's   dread 

embrace?'' 
"We,"    sighed   the    streams    and   rivers; 

moose  and  deer 
Came  calling  through  the  forests  for  their 

mates. 
Her   eyes  unclosing   saw   where,    in   his 

throes, 
He  lay — his  witchcraft  gone  1    In  vain  he 

cried 

Unto  his  scattered  hosts  of  sleet  and  rain, 
Till   in  the  yellow   morn  he   shrank  to 

naught 

132 


ALGONKIN  SPRING 

And  vanished  in  a  bursting  stream  of  tears. 
Then  at  her  couch  the  flower  of  miskodeed 
Put  forth  its  silver  token  of  the  May, 
And  on  the  branch  above  a  bird  began; 
And  she,  in  tears:     "It  is  the  bluebird's 

song, — 

My  childhood  comes  again  at  hearing  him; 
He  speaks  to  me  of  home,  and  Kmewun's 

eyes, 

And  all  the  sweet  companions  of  the  south. 
Too  long  have  I  bereaved  them;  I  will  go 
And  seek  the  pity  of  the  hills,  the  grace 
Of  all  the  vales  and  rivers  of  my  south!" 
Swift  up  and  down  the  streams  the  gossip 

elves 

Of  sunlight  hurried  with  the  glad  acclaim. 
As  forth  into  the  sun  she  fared,  with  joy 
Burst  out  the  rivers  shouting  to  the  sea. 
And  as  she  journeyed  on  the  South  Wind 

stole 
To  bring  her  cheeks  the  crimson  of  the 

dawn; 
The  sprites  of  morning  twined  her  hair 

with  flowers 
And  wove  her  garments  of  the  grass  and 

leaves ; 

133 


ALGONKIN  SPRING 

Whilst  Kmewun,  mother  of  the  rain,  alone 
Went  up  her  highest  hills  in  festival, 
And  o'er  the  lakes  and  islands  scattered 

showers 
And  shimmering  rainbows  for  her  child's 

return. 


134 


FULFILMENT 

As  that  proud  bird  of  eastern  story 
Did  pluck  away  from  Persia's  crown 

The  gem  of  wizardry  and  glory, 

I   took   my  youth    from   Time's   deep 
frown. 

In  splendor  shook  the  bird  to  heaven — 
So  too  my  heart  outshone  the  star — 

With  burst  of  song  its  throat  was  riven, 
And  glittering  fell  the  gem  afar. 

Thus  I — O  loveliness  Elysian, 

Cool  brows  of  dawn,  and  rose-mouth 

dreamt  upon! — 
I  turn  to  sing  God's  manifested  vision, 

And  find  that  youth  is  gone! 


135 


BERKELEY  LIEKABY> 


50m-7,'29 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


